


You May Now Kiss the Bride

by honeycakes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Attempted Murder, Awesome Molly Hooper, Case Fic, Companion Molly, Cuddly Sherlock, It's For a Case, Marriage, Molly Hooper Appreciation, Murder, Mycroft Being Mycroft, POV Molly Hooper, Possessive Sherlock, Protective John, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Being an Idiot, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlolly - Freeform, Shotgun Wedding, Weddings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-10
Updated: 2014-07-23
Packaged: 2018-01-11 21:37:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 61,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1178208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeycakes/pseuds/honeycakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a game afoot in London. Someone is killing off men being roped into shotgun weddings. Sherlock takes the case for the sake of poor Mrs. Hudson, and sets a scheme in motion. A staged wedding to draw the attention of a murderer. All he needs now is someone he can trust, someone to play the role of 'expecting bride'. </p><p>A bit of fun, with a bit of fluff, murder, and lovely flower arrangements.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was one of those rare mornings in April when the clouds had cleared and the sun was bright and warm. Flowers were starting to bloom, and there was a sweet-smelling breeze all through the city. Molly Hooper woke up with a smile on her face, half an hour before her alarm went off, feeling decidedly cheerful. It was going to be an easy day at the office, mostly paperwork, a couple of autopsies. Nothing too heavy, though! No serial murders, no big, dark cases that relied heavily on her to get solved. It was just going to be a nice, sunny, straightforward sort of day.

 

Molly rolled out of bed, and took the extra half hour to have an extra long, steamy shower, using a dollop of her special, expensive, mint and lemongrass body wash. She spent an extra long while doing her hair, brushing it out, making a nice, twisty side-ponytail. She even curled the ends a little, and applied a little make up. She pulled on a pair of nice brown corduroy pants, and a lovely blue sweater with a pretty, yellow lace camisole underneath. Then Molly packed herself a nice little lunch of fruit and a sandwich, stuck it in her backpack, and pulled on her shoes. It was such a lovely day out, she decided to bike to work! The first bike ride of the spring. The ride to work was wonderful. Birds were singing, the sun was warm, the sky was blue. Molly felt relaxed, energized, and content with the world.

 

It didn't last long.

 

Molly got to St. Bart's, locked up her bike, and walked up into the building, humming cheerfully. She rounded a corner, and walked straight into a chest. A chest that was tall, male, and wearing a black jacket. Molly looked up into the eyes of Sherlock Holmes, who was staring down at her, hands clasped behind his back, a tense little smile on his face. “Good morning, Molly, enjoy the bike ride?” he asked, grabbing her by the arm and walking her back the way she'd come. “It, I- Yes, it was lovely! Where are we going?” she asked, blinking at the detective. “There has been a slight change in your schedule. I require assistance in solving a series of murders.” Molly frowned. “You want my help? Why? I mean, why not John?” Not that she wasn't pleased. She enjoyed helping Sherlock. It was interesting, and exciting. And, insufferable as he could be sometimes, she still did have a rather large soft spot in her heart for Sherlock. As she'd grown more confident in herself, some of the blinding infatuation had faded, but to say she was over him would be a rather big lie. Sherlock didn't even look at her as he responded. “This particular investigation requires a person of a different persuasion. John would be all but useless to me,” he said. Molly's phone buzzed at her hip, and she managed to fumble it out as Sherlock dragged her out of the building. She saw that she had missed four calls, probably while she'd been biking, and there were two new texts. The first was from her boss.

 

MOLLY, JUST HEARD THE NEWS! JOLLY WELL DONE. HAVE AN AMAZING DAY, AND WHEN YOU HAVE A MINUTE, GIVE ME A CALL, WE'LL TALK ABOUT TIME OFF. GOOD LUCK!

 

Molly blinked, confused. The second, and most recent text, came from Greg Lestrade.

 

MOLLY, WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?

 

Sherlock took her phone from her hand and peered at it, stopping suddenly. He handed it back to her. “Ignore them,” he said simply, and then hailed a taxi. He opened the door to the cab for her, and she slid in. He followed her, his phone pressed to his ear. “221 Baker Street,” he said to the cabbie, who took off quickly. Molly stared at the detective, brow furrowed. “Sherlock, what-” he waved a hand at her, and then straightened in his seat and began speaking quickly to whoever had just picked up.

 

“Mycroft. Yes. I've got her. No, not yet. Yes, yes, of course, I know. We should be ten minutes, see that everything is ready.” He hung up, and stared out the window, looking agitated and tense. Molly frowned. “Sherlock, what am I doing, exactly?” she asked after a minute. He looked over at her, and Molly was surprised to see that he looked rather uncomfortable. There was silence for a moment, and then he cleared his throat, and the mask of cool indifference settled back over his features. “I've been on this case for a few weeks. Three men have turned up dead. Each has been mutilated, though the cause of death was strangulation in all three cases. Two were murdered on the night following their weddings, the third was killed shortly after returning from his honeymoon. All three married women who have been described as petite, fragile, less than eager to marry, and approximately five months pregnant. None of the victims knew each other, so it appears our murderer is targeting men taking part in shotgun weddings.” He said this all very quickly, finishing as the cab rolled to a halt. Sherlock quickly left the cab, running up to the door without waiting for Molly, who paid the driver, trying to wrap her mind around the case. Her lovely, comfortable, cheery mood had plummeted rather dramatically, replaced by a sinking feeling in her stomach. She followed Sherlock into the building, and passing a worried looking Mrs Hudson on the stairs. The older woman took Molly's face in her hands, making a distressed little noise.

 

“You're a good girl, Molly. A very good girl for doing this,” she said, and Molly could see tears in her eyes. Without another word, Mrs Hudson stumbled down the stairs, a hand pressed to her mouth, disappearing into her flat. Molly blinked, and then went up the stairs, walking into Sherlock's sitting room. Her jaw dropped, and she very nearly turned and left.

 

The flat was full of people. There were a couple of policemen, a woman in a sort of a smock, a woman by the window looking at her phone, a tall, thin man with an umbrella, a couple of people who looked like reporters, and John, sitting with a scowl on his face beside Mary. The wall over the fireplace had photos, articles and maps taped up. There were pictures of chopped up corpses with pages of notes beside them, and under those were wedding photos. Up against a wall was a great big open box, full of makeup and binders. And, laid out on one of the chairs, was a thick, shiny garment bag. Something in Molly's mind clicked, and she squeaked, slapping a hand to her mouth. John looked up and spotted her, and came to her quickly.

 

“Molly. You do NOT have to take any part of this, it is ridiculous, and dangerous, and incredibly stupid, and nobody would stop you if you said no,” he said quickly, looking rather pinched and angry. Mary joined him. “He's right, Molly, it's not fair to ask this of you,” she said, patting Molly on the shoulder, her expression sympathetic. Sherlock, who had been speaking to the reporters, came and joined the group. “Don't be ridiculous, she'd be happy to help,” he said, smiling at her encouragingly. John looked ready to strangle him. The reporters walked to the door, one turned to Sherlock and saying, “We can have the story running in fifteen minutes.” Sherlock nodded, and then began unbuttoning his shirt. Molly flapped her hands, making a sort of loud, shrill gurgling sound. Everyone in the room stopped and looked at her, and she was irritated to find that she blushed under the attention. “What exactly is going on here?” she demanded after a moment of trying to find her voice. Sherlock gave her a long look, and then put his hands on her shoulders, staring into her eyes.

 

“In approximately fifteen minutes, a story will be leaked to the news that I have gotten you pregnant, and we are to be married in the afternoon with as much haste and secrecy as possible. Given the stories recently ran about my supposed sexual exploits, it won't come as a great surprise. And then, in about three hours time, you and I are going to get married in St. Anne's Lutheran Church in front of a small congregation. After the ceremony, which will undoubtedly be filmed by a news crew and immediately aired, you and I will exit the church, take part in a brief interview where we will allude to your pregnancy, and where you will comment that your family is unhappy with the situation and had a hand in pushing the marriage. John, acting as best man, will make a point of mentioning how suddenly this all came about, and the fact that our honeymoon will take place in a month's time, after you and I have had time to secure proper living arrangements. He will then drop the name of the pub where I will be meeting with my groomsmen for a short after-party, while you go with your bridesmaids to have a reception and post-wedding bridal shower. The story will be aired on every news channel, and will almost certainly attract our murderer, who will search me out and attempt to kill me, not anticipating the trap we are setting for him. After the criminal has been apprehended, you and I will get the marriage annulled, and we can both go on with our days.” The flat went very quiet after that as the full plan sunk in, and it seemed everyone was looking at Molly, waiting for her reaction. There was the sound of a dark sigh from the doorway behind her.

 

“You absolute prick,” said Greg Lestrade viciously as he pulled off his coat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, I wrote a thing. What can I say, I get all mushy for a bit of Sherlolly! Please do comment, let me know how you like it so far, and thank you for reading. :}


	2. Chapter 2

Greg fully entered the flat, staring at Sherlock, looking quite mad indeed. “I got this text, about half an hour ago. 'Assistance needed at Baker Street, bring a good suit. Need you to be a groomsman, getting married to Molly.' So this is the plan? Make Molly marry you in the hopes that a nutter'll try to kill you? Have you lost your ruddy mind?” Sherlock huffed irritably. “Lestrade, if you don't feel comfortable taking part, you can leave. I'll call Anderson instead.” John gave a short bark of laughter at that, shaking his head, looking completely exasperated. Mary piped up. “Why Molly?” she asked. “She's similar to the women in the other cases. All have been described as sweet, small, women, with delicate features. When interviewed, each has stated that they didn't feel altogether comfortable with the idea of getting married, but that they came from conservative backgrounds, and their parents demanded a wedding.” Greg snorted. “Well, you may as well just go ahead and get her pregnant as well! So she'll really fit the bill! Go on, we'll all turn our backs.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “That will not be necessary, she'll be in a body suit. And would you please stop being so dramatic about this, it will be finished by this time tomorrow.” “Dramati- This is marriage you're talking about, not a trip to the bloody zoo!” Molly couldn't take it. They were bickering over top of her, it was like she wasn't even in the room.

 

“Will you please stop, both of you!” she exclaimed, stomping her foot. Everyone was looking at her again. She sighed, and looked at Sherlock. “Does it need to go like this? I mean, really, really need to?” she asked weakly. He considered her for a moment. “No, I confess it does not. I could analyze from the outside, connect dots and study profiles, as I was doing last week. But two days ago, the situation changed when the third victim's name was released. It was Mrs Hudson's nephew, Edward Shannon. I am attempting to solve this case quickly for her sake.” He frowned down at her. “I suppose I understand why you would be reluctant to help in this way, and if you cannot take part in the plan, it will not be held against you.”

 

Molly stared at the floor, chewing on her bottom lip. Mrs Hudson's weepy face flared up in her mind. After a moment, she nodded. “Alright, I'll do it. It's only a day, right?”

 

The apartment burst into action. The woman in the smock dragged Molly over to a chair, and sat her down, studying her face. Sherlock was speaking to the man with the umbrella, who Molly recognized somehow, and John was running a hand through his hair, taking a big swig of his coffee. The woman by the window went over to Mary, showing her something on her phone, and Mary was nodding. Now Sherlock turned to the policemen, and seemed to be giving them directions. They left, and the detective turned and clapped his hands, turning back to John, Greg and Mr Umbrella. Molly was suddenly pulled to her feet, and the woman, who she now saw had a name tag on declaring that her name was Tanya, walked around her in a circle.

 

“Lose the sweater, dear, I can hardly see you under there,” she instructed. Molly pulled the sweater off, leaving her in the cords and camisole. She felt decidedly uncomfortable under Tanya's scrutiny. The woman was squinting at her face, and holding up her hair in the light. “Right, so we're going for sweet, innocent, that sort of thing. I'm thinking golds, peaches, apricots and browns. Make the eyes bigger, the lips fuller. Lighten the hair, highlights... Or maybe, hm.” She very quickly undid Molly's hair, and brushed it out. Most of the curl had gone, but it waved nicely around her face and shoulders. Tanya pulled out a big binder and began flipping through it, occasionally looking up to squint at Molly. “You've got one of those skin tones, you know. You could pull off blonde or red, if you wanted. A darker shade of brown, though, maybe with a touch of auburn, that would be quite sweet, with your eyes. What do you think, dear?” She flipped around the book, showing a hair sample the colour of chocolate, but with a soft red glow to it. Molly squinted at it. “Well, I mean, it's quite pretty-” She wasn't given time to finish. Tanya plopped her down and threw a smock around her shoulders, before turning to her box of makeup and things and began preparing a dye. Molly chewed on her lip, staring around at all the fuss. In the middle of it was Sherlock, loud, commanding and confident. His eyes were bright, and there was colour in his cheeks. He had removed his shirt, and was now wearing a pearly white one, unbuttoned enough that she could just see his collarbone. He looked beautiful. She sighed. How often, on a slow day at work, had she imagined standing with Sherlock at the altar? Once, at a coffee shop, she had actually told the barista her last name was Holmes, just so she could giggle and blush when it was announced that a mocha was ready for Molly Holmes. And now here she was, watching him planning their wedding. Somehow, she had never imagined it going this way. She had imagined flowers, chocolates, beautiful music playing, Sherlock on one knee with tears in his eyes...

 

Molly blinked. And then she stood up, determined not to stutter or lose her nerve. “Hang on a second!” she called. Sherlock looked up at her, as did the others. She felt the blush coming and cursed inwardly. “You haven't proposed yet,” she said in a small voice. John spluttered, coughing into his coffee. Sherlock straightened, looking somewhat alarmed. “Molly, don't be ridiculous. This isn't a real marriage.” Mr Umbrella put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, a look of amusement on his face. “Don't be silly, brother dear, it's all a part of the illusion. Every wedding must be prefaced by a proposal, surely even you know that.” Molly blinked at him. Brother. Right. The man from that night in the mortuary, with the bashed up naked woman. Mike-something. Sherlock looked at him, exasperated. Then he turned to Molly.

 

“Will you marry me?” he asked, sounding rather sarcastic. His brother scoffed. “Come now Sherlock, where's the romance? If you are going to do this, do it right. Goodness knows this may be the only shot you get.” “Mycroft, if you are going to insist on being intolerable, I'm afraid I shall have to kick you out,” Sherlock replied through gritted teeth. Then he gave a great sigh, staring at Molly. Molly stared back, chin lifted, jaw tense. She was getting married. Married to the insufferable man who had ruined more or less all of her relationships. She would at least have the memory of him proposing. Sherlock made a sound not unlike a growl. “Alright, alright, where's the bloody ring?” he demanded. John, who had been staring, slack-jawed, back and forth between Molly and Sherlock, began patting at his pockets. He pulled out a ring box, and shrugged at Molly. “Hope you like it, he gave me money and sent me off to a thrift store.” He handed the little box to Sherlock, who huffed, and walked over to Molly. His brow was furrowed and he was frowning. She raised her eyebrows at him as he opened the little box and offered it to her.

 

“Will you marry me?” It was Molly's turn to huff. “Sherlock Holmes, I am getting married as a favour to you. I'm going to be divorced tomorrow! The least you can do is make this count!” she exclaimed. He groaned, looking annoyed. “You won't though, you'll have annulled a marriage, that's a completely separate thing.” She just stared at him. He held out for almost a full minute, and then sighed.

 

Sherlock Holmes looked at Molly with soft eyes, and slowly lowered himself, dropping onto one knee. He took one of Molly's hands, and brushed his lips across her knuckles. Then he pressed the hand to his heart, and gazed up at Molly with wide, bright eyes.

 

“Molly Hooper. Would you do me the great honour of consenting to being my wife?” he asked, in a deep, thick, velvety voice. Molly felt her breath hitch in her chest, and nodded. A breathtaking grin split his features, and he took the ring from the box, slipping it onto her finger. He jumped to his feet and pulled her into his arms, pressing a kiss to her cheek before crushing her against his chest. Molly wrapped her arms around him, and nuzzled against his chest with a smile on her face and tears in her eyes. The effect was ruined a little by Sherlock clearing his throat. “Clap, clap now, you're all supposed to clap at the end bit, _come on_...” he hissed at the group, who began a quick, if awkward clap. Molly was pretty sure she heard Greg give a little whoop. She sighed. The moment was over, and of course it was just him acting, but it was still rather nice. Sherlock pulled back, grabbed her by the shoulders, and gave her an irritated look. “All better? Can we please get on with it now?” he demanded, and all but stomped back over to Mycroft.

 

Molly looked over the group, John and Mary looking very annoyed with the detective, Mycroft looking smug, Anthea turned to face everyone but still staring hard at her phone. Then Tanya cleared her throat, and Molly looked back to see her standing with a bowl of dye cream and a pair of rubber gloves. She allowed herself to be lead back to the chair, and dropped down heavily. As Tanya got to work on her hair, Molly stared down at the ring on her finger. It really was rather pretty, a round diamond with two little yellow stones on either side on a gold band. Just simple, but sweet. Tanya was humming behind her as she put all different sorts of creams into her hair, separating sections with foil. “Y'know, if you forgot the rest of him and just focus on the proposal bit, that was actually kind of sweet,” she said thoughtfully. Molly smiled a little, and said nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in one day! This has been on my mind for a little while now, it's really nice to get it written. Comment, let me know what you think! Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

An hour passed quickly. Tanya pulled Molly into the bathroom to wash out the dye, and then brought her back and sat her down again, spraying and kneading all sorts of product into her hair. She was blown dry very quickly, and then all her long hair was wrapped around great big curlers, the size of soup cans. Her entire head was sprayed again, and then Tanya was all but straddling her, applying dye to her brows and lashes as well. “Is this really necessary?” asked Molly, her eyes shut as cream was brushed into her lashes. “It is, boss said so, now be quiet,” came the terse response. When the dye had set, Molly was exfoliated from her forehead to her shoulders, rinsed off, and then a mask was applied to her face.

 

As all this was happening, Sherlock got John, Greg and Mycroft into their suits, getting very annoyed when it turned out Greg had brought a dark grey one, while the other two had black. A call was made to a fine men's clothing store. Mary, Mrs Hudson and Anthea got changed into their dresses and modeled them quickly. Mary wore a very pretty lilac dress with a dropped waist and a beaded pattern, Mrs Hudson wore a lovely dark green dress with padded shoulders and a black lace overlay (fluttering all the while about how she'd not worn it in years, and wasn't it just so wonderful what a brisk walk every morning and eating a bit less chocolate will do for you), and Anthea wore a simple taupe dress which cinched at the waist and showed a fair amount of cleavage. Then they hopped to their other jobs, Mary looking at different bouquet options, looking back and forth between pictures on Mycroft's phone and the garment bag which Molly assumed contained her wedding gown. Anthea was on the phone, speaking in a low voice about flavours of cake and colours of fondant. Mrs Hudson was just wandering around, tidying, and occasionally popping over to tell Molly she was a good girl and to ask Tanya how she looked. All the while, Sherlock and Mycroft spoke in low voices, going over the plan and irritating one another alternately.

 

A moment of excitement came when there was a knock at the door, and it was opened to reveal a man delivering Greg's new suit, and two other men who were both carrying large boxes. One of them had a picture of flowers printed on it, the other a picture of a cake. Mary showed the cake man to the kitchen while John helped Greg into the suit. Sherlock took the box of flowers went into the middle of the living room and opened it up, gently lifting out bundles and corsages. A very pretty arrangement came out, a bouquet of yellow roses and daises, with lovely long green leaves poking through. Sherlock held it up over his head without looking away from the box. “Molly, acceptable?” he shouted. Molly nodded, before noticing he wasn't looking at her, and called back, “Oh, um, yes! Yes, very pretty, thank you.” Greg was looking fetching in his suit, and Mary seemed pleased with the cake, so all three men were paid and sent quickly on their way. Sherlock bounced to his feet, and demanded everyone report their progress.

 

“The cake is in the fridge, and looks rather tasty,” said Mary from the kitchen.

 

“The hair will be done once the curls have been set and everything's pinned up, the lashes have been tinted, brows are still setting, then it's on to make up and the dress,” called Tanya as she wiped the last of the mask from Molly's face.

 

“We've all got our suits together,” offered John as he folded his pocket square.

 

“The van pulled up to the church fifteen minutes ago, pews are being decorated with white silk ribbons and yellow roses, and a floral arrangement is being set up on the altar,” said Anthea.

 

“As of ten minutes ago, five television stations have reported the story of your upcoming nuptials. Eight separate magazines have called asking for the story, three of them have been leaked a candid photograph of the proposal. The Hoopers have been contacted, parents are on the way, and mummy wishes you to know that she is not at all pleased about this,” said Mycroft, and Sherlock sighed. “Years she's been on me to settle down, and now she's 'not at all pleased about this,'” he grumbled childishly. “Molly, status?” Molly sat up straight, blinking wildly at all the information.

 

“My family's coming?” she asked. Sherlock squinted at her. “Yes, of course they are. We need a mother of the bride after all. Besides that, televisions and radios everywhere are saying that I knocked you up and am dragging you down the aisle this afternoon, we thought they'd probably want to be invited.” Molly spluttered in a frantic way, trying to think of the best way to deal with this bit of news, though she was interrupted by the sound of a door banging open. She jumped, and looked around, seeing her three brothers burst into the flat, looking outraged. “Which one of you is Sherlock Holmes, then?” demanded Mark, the oldest of the trio. The flat erupted into pandemonium, with Molly panicking right in the middle of it.

 

Ten minutes later, Molly was handing a great big mug of tea to her mum, who had come through the door after her sons in tears wearing her best navy blue dress, as Sherlock explained the situation.

 

“It's alright mum, none of it's real, I'm not pregnant, I promise,” said Molly, wrapping her arms around the older woman.

 

“I don't like this at all, Snaps,” grumbled Christopher, the youngest of Molly's brothers, who was still two years older than her. She sighed. “Well, you don't have to like it. You just have to dress up and sit in a church for a while,” she said with a shrug. Mrs Hudson popped in then with a tray of tea, biscuits and cheese, and Molly went back to her chair to continue being poked at. Sherlock came and stood near her, hands clasped behind his back, looking a little tense.

 

“What did he call you?” he asked after a moment. “Snaps,” Molly replied. “It's my nickname.” Sherlock raised his eyebrows and she shrugged. “I was really scared of thunderstorms when I was a kid, and the only way mum could calm me down during them was by wrapping me in a big towel and feeding me lots of ginger-snaps.” Sherlock considered that, and then nodded.

 

“Mrs Hooper,” he called, going over to the big box of flowers. “I understand this is a trying situation for you. For what it's worth, your daughter is here of her own free will, and as soon as we have caught our criminal, life will return to normal for all of us. However, until then...” he strode over to her, and knelt on the floor at her feet, pressing a lovely white rose corsage into her hand. He gave her a wide, easy smile. “I wonder if I could convince you to take part, as the mother of the bride?” He was the perfect combination of comforting and charming, and soon Mrs Hooper was beaming, telling him stories about Molly when she was a baby, and getting weepy as she watched Molly getting made up. John and Greg chatted with her brothers, easing their nerves and doing their best to assure them that Molly wasn't being taken advantage of. “Honestly, I don't think Sherlock even knows _how_ to take advantage of a woman, his brain just doesn't work that way,” muttered Greg conspiratorially. Mary heaved a great sigh of relief.

 

“I bet you'll be pleased when this mess is over,” she said to Molly with a grin. Molly looked around at Mycroft and Anthea, muttering in a corner, Greg and John talking to her brothers, and Sherlock chatting easily with her mum, as he poured her another cup of tea. Her heart throbbed a little, but she smiled and nodded anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had a horrible day, in which I dropped a huge pot of stew on the floor and had a really stupidly hard time making a tray of black bean brownies. Writing this chapter was seriously so therapeutic, you have no idea, I'm just having such a good time with this story!
> 
> Comment, let me know what you think, I hope you're liking it, and thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

As time went on, Sherlock became more and more anxious. He took to running from one end of the flat to the other at random times, muttering to himself all the while. He'd run to the fridge, open it, stare at the cake for a moment, and then squint at the rest of the team. Then he'd dash around everyone else and go to stand by the big front window, peering out suspiciously. A few times he ran over to Molly, staring at her as Tanya applied eye liner and curled lashes. After the fourth sprint, John threw his hands in the air.

 

“Sherlock, the cake is still there, the street still has the same number of people on it, the murderer is not hiding in the make-up bag, now would you stop flailing about like a prat!” Sherlock frowned at that, but went to the big arm chair near the make up station and perched on top of it, steepling his fingers, and staring darkly at the floor. Molly peeked over at him as her blush was being swept on, and grinned a little. He was brooding, like a big sulking child.

 

“Sherlock,” she called quietly after a moment of thought. “I hate to be a pain, but I was wondering if you could maybe go over the plan with me again?” The detective heaved a great sigh, then dragged his chair over to sit beside Molly.

 

“It's fairly simple,” he began. “We dress you up as the sweet, fresh-faced young expecting mother, and then you and I do the wedding bit. After that, we open the doors to the church and have a small reception on the grounds. The cake will be cut, there will probably be a couple of speeches. The hope is that the murderer will hear of our upcoming marriage on the news, and will come to investigate. He or she will consider the situation, see that it is similar to those of his/her other victims, and will try to kill me, not realizing that half the wedding guests are police officers. When the cake and speeches are done, you'll be brought back here under the pretence of a baby shower, and I will go off to the pub for a post-wedding celebration. This will remove you from the danger, and give the killer an opportunity to come after me.” Molly nodded.

 

“Okay. What if it goes wrong?” she asked. Sherlock squinted at her. She shrugged a little. “Well, you could get hurt. Or someone else in the group. Or a reporter could find out I'm not pregnant. Or, you said the killer didn't kill the one man till after his honeymoon, what if the killer doesn't go for the trap?” Sherlock huffed. “Don't be ridiculous Molly, I have studied the murderer's profile, it will all go as planned. And then tomorrow, we will get the marriage annulled and everything will go back to normal.” He strode off, hands clasped behind his back, shoulders tense. Molly frowned, feeling rather less confident than her groom-to-be seemed.

 

Fifteen minutes later, Tanya stepped back and stared at Molly, rolling an eye-shadow brush between her fingers. She nodded. “Done. Alright. Mary, Mrs Hudson, with me!” she called, dragging Molly to her feet, taking the garment bag, and walking her off down a hallway, the other two women quickly following. Molly was shoved into a room with a large bed, a poster of the periodic table, and a dresser with a microscope on it. There was little else in there. She supposed it was Sherlock's room, though she was surprised at how clean it was. He didn't seem the tidy type. Her musings were interrupted by Tanya shutting the door.

 

“Right. Take off your clothes, and put these on.” A bag was thrust at her. Molly looked inside, and blushed at all the lace and ribbons. She started stuttering and stammering, looking around at the three. “I've never, I- I mean, that is, see...” Mary came over and patted her on the shoulder, holding another bag.

 

“Don't worry, it's all for the illusion. The bra is heavily padded, and there's a sort of pocket in the front of the bustier for this!” She waved the bag around. “This is all just to make sure you actually look pregnant, that's all. Besides, look at it this way. Who else can say they've been in Sherlock Holmes's bedroom wearing nothing but lingerie and a fake tummy?” Mary winked, and Molly grinned. Then, rather awkwardly, and going an alarming shade of pink, she pulled off all of her clothing, and slipped into the lace knickers and heavy-duty bra. It pushed her cleavage up to her ears. Next came the stockings, which were rolled up to her hips and then clipped into place. At last came the bodice. It was skin-coloured, some sort of stretchy material, and after it had been clipped and laced onto her body, Mary grabbed her bag and pulled out what looked like a big oval pillow. It took some huffing and bending, but soon the pillow had been slid into the pocket on Molly's front. It was just a little thing, adding some roundness to her front, nothing too dramatic. Molly ran her hands over it, and gave a little smile. “You know, I rather like it,” she admitted, and the other ladies grinned. Then Tanya clapped her hands together.

 

“Okay, dress time,” she said, unzipping the garment bag. Mary took Molly's hands and smiled. “Now, I must confess, Sherlock sent me to get this at the same time John was getting the ring, and it's from the same shop. I did my best, but it is rather simple.” Molly shrugged, not really sure what to say. She did smile and feel a little overwhelmed when it was held out in front of her, though. The ladies helped her to pull it up over her belly, and then Tanya sat her on the edge of Sherlock's bed and began tugging out the curlers. Her hair was pulled up into a sort of up-do, with number of clips and a short, poofy veil. A pair of white, beaded slippers were tied onto her feet, and then she was walked to the bathroom by the three smiling women, Mrs Hudson getting a touch weepy. Molly was brought in front of the bathroom mirror, and saw herself for the first time.

 

Her reflection almost didn't look like her at all. Her hair was a good deal darker, the colour of chocolate, with a sort of deep red glow. It was swept up off of her face into a wide knot at the back of her head, held in place with pins that were topped with pearls, and protected by the veil. The darkness of her hair made her skin look pale, and her make-up somehow made her eyes look bigger, rounder. There was a lovely light blush on her cheeks, and her lips were painted a soft red. The dress was simple, yes, but really lovely nonetheless, with thick straps, a low, square neckline, and an empire waist. The ribbon under her bust was a lovely light yellow shade, and tied into a great big bow at the back. The fabric was something like chiffon, and draped beautifully. Her round belly jutted out just a little, and in combination with her deeper cleavage and the way Tanya had somehow made her skin glow, she really did look as though she were about five months pregnant. Molly smiled. She felt truly beautiful. Mary smiled encouragingly and gave Molly a little nudge. Molly took a deep breath, and allowed her friend to walk her back out to the sitting room.

 

Out in the sitting room, things seemed to be going a little tensely. As the girls entered the room, it was to the sight of John trying to get a white rose to attach to the lapel of Sherlock's suit. Sherlock was swatting at his friend, complaining that John was doing it wrong, and that he was likely to bruise the petals. Tanya coughed loudly. Everyone turned to look, and then froze.

 

Molly's brothers, who had been chatting with Greg about whatever, stared at their baby sister with gaping jaws, and Greg just went very still, mid-word, gazing at her with wide eyes. Molly's mum seemed to have lost the ability to breathe, and was just sitting on the couch with wet eyes, a handkerchief pressed to her lips. Anthea was smiling a little, nodding her approval. John was staring at her, his mouth a little “o” of surprise, eyebrows popped right up to his hairline, still holding the boutonnière. Mycroft, for his part, looked Molly up and down, gave a curt little nod, and then turned to look at his brother, a small smile on his face.

 

Sherlock had been in the action of swatting away John's hands, and had grabbed him by the wrist just as Tanya coughed. He stood completely still, staring at Molly with a sort of startled intensity. His eyes widened a little, and the muscles in his body went tense, and then he simply stopped moving altogether. The room erupted into noise, Molly's mum starting to sob, weeping about how Molly's dad would have loved to see her like this. Her brothers began exclaiming about their baby sister and how she actually looked like a lady and other such things, sort of clapping their hands and getting swatted away as they tried to poke at her hair. Mary and Anthea were making little comments to each other about the fit of the dress, both of them smiling, Mary looking a touch misty-eyed. Greg was just spluttering about, making the beginnings of compliments before trailing off and looking bewildered. Molly sort of flapped her hands around, trying not to get overwhelmed. John tried to go over to her, but found he couldn't move. Sherlock still had him by the wrist.

 

“Sherlock? Are you okay? Sherlock, come on, let go of my wrist. Sherlock? Ow, stop squeezing!” John gave the detective a little shove, which seemed to wake him up. Molly stared at him now, and the others looked around too as he bumped into a chair and had to steady himself to keep from falling. Everyone went back to silence then, as Molly stared at Sherlock and he stared at her. He cleared his throat after a moment, and then walked over to her. She gazed up at him, blushing even more as he walked around her in a circle, taking her in. He came in front of her once more, and nodded.

 

“Right. Yes. Almost, but...” he trailed off. And then he reached out, and gently pulled the veil from her hair, letting it float down to the floor. Then he began sliding pins out of her hair, carefully tilting her head this way and that, as her long curls tumbled down around her shoulders. His hands slipped into her hair, twisting and arranging, and Molly felt her breath catch in her chest as a finger brushed against her neck. He paused, and looked down at her, giving a little nod. “I think it suits you better down,” he said in a low voice. Molly swallowed hard, and gave a little nod.

 

Her mum began sobbing again, and the moment passed, Sherlock very quickly walking away to talk to his brother. Molly was fussed over by both Tanya and Mrs Hudson now, both of them tugging at curls and attacking her with hairspray. John and Mary looked at each other, both smiling a little, their eyebrows raised. She kissed him lightly, and they began whispering and giggling, looking back and forth between the detective and the mortuary attendant, sharing in little jokes and bets and schemes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whups! I totally forgot to post this last night, my bad. The wedding is fast approaching! Are you excited? I'm excited. I am much excited. 
> 
> Let me know how you're liking it, and thanks, as always, for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

At 11:30, on the dot, Sherlock cleared his throat rather loudly. “Alright, everyone, it's time to go to the church. Mrs Hudson, get the cake. Mycroft, carry the flowers. Molly, John, Mary, with me. And please do try to be quick with it,” he announced. He sounded rather agitated, two spots of colour high on his cheeks. Molly felt the bottom drop out of her stomach, and grabbed at Mary's arm.

 

“Mary, I- I don't think I can do this, after all,” she stammered quietly, suddenly feeling both incredibly warm and incredibly scared. Mary smiled kindly. “Oh don't worry, you won't be in danger for a moment,” she said. Molly stared at the floor. “It isn't that,” she said quietly. Mary gave her a long look. Then, she turned to John and Sherlock and beamed at him.

 

“You boys go on ahead, Molly and I are just going to go over some girly things,” she said. Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes, but John seemed to understand, and dragged his friend away before he could protest. Mary gave Molly a little nudge. “What's the matter, then?” she asked in a warm voice. Molly sniffed.

 

“All of this, it just... It just doesn't seem real. It's too ridiculous to be real,” she said, looking up at the ceiling. “For so long, I wanted things to work out with Sherlock. I kept hoping, for _so long_ , that he'd just look up and see me, and he'd appreciate me, and- And then he did the whole death faking thing, and I helped. He said he needed me.” She gave a small, sad laugh at that. “I don't know that I expected to have happen, that he'd appreciate me more, that he'd keep in touch with me, but then he was just gone. Gone out of my life for two years. I was so _mad_ at him, all of the time! Just- I'd be crying, and swearing, and cursing him, and missing him, but then I started to get over him, I really thought I'd moved on. And then he came back, and things were just starting to get comfortable, and now there's all this?” she gestured at her dress and sighed. “It's like... Like I'm getting married to the man of my dreams, but I know that we'll never be together, and it hurts. D'you know?” Mary was quiet for a moment, and then sighed.

 

“This really is the worst bit of advice that I could give, but I don't think it's hopeless,” she said slowly. “Sherlock doesn't love like other people. He shuts himself in, calls himself a sociopath, and then assumes he's been drugged the minute he starts having feelings. But he does love, he does. He loves John, he loves Mrs Hudson, and I do believe he loves you, too. And yes, this wedding is going to be like the worst sort of emotional torture. It'll feel really happy, and then it'll be over.” Mary squeezed her hands. “But it will be saving lives. And in a way, it is really him showing how much he cares about and trusts you. You know, he didn't need to do any of this. He really didn't. He could have just caught him through deductions, and it would probably take about the same amount of time, and a lot less money and stress that way. Do you know how he told us about this, John and me?” Molly shook her head. Mary gave a little snort of laughter. “He came to our flat, in the middle of the night, beat on our door till he was rung up, and then swooshed in, stood at the end of our bed, and said, 'I need you to help me plan a shotgun wedding to Molly Hooper'. I thought John's head was going to explode. He didn't explain about it being a trap until the next day. John and I spent an entire night thinking Sherlock had gotten you pregnant!” Molly smiled at that, feeling little butterflies in her stomach. Mary shrugged. “You don't have to do this. You know that. We could easily find someone else. We could probably even stick Anthea in a veil and have the trap still work. But the thing is... I don't think there's anyone else Sherlock would feel comfortable getting married to.” She gave a cheeky little grin at that. Molly was quiet for a moment, thinking about how the next day she would be un-married again, and she would probably cry a whole lot and wish she could take it all back. And then she nodded, and began walking out toward the car, to go get married.

 

The ride to the church was an uncomfortable one. John drove, Mary sat in the front, Sherlock and Molly in the back. It was mostly quiet, and John and Mary held hands the entire way. Sherlock stared out the window. Molly stared at her lap. When they were about halfway there, Sherlock directed John to drive up behind the church, to the back doors. Then he turned to Molly.

 

“Now Molly,” he said in a quick tone, taking her hand. “This is going to require you to act. In order for our rouse to be convincing, it will need to seem as though we are at a level of affection and comfort that would occur in the fifth or sixth month of courtship. However, remember that this wedding is happening at least a touch against your will, and is a source of discomfort for you. You are willing to be with me, but not eager to be my wife. It would be helpful if you could cry, and try not to blush too much when we kiss. Yes?” Molly nodded, words escaping her, annoyed that she was blushing already. Somehow, through all the prep work, she had quite forgotten about a kiss at the end. She felt a bit faint.

 

There was no time for further conversation. John pulled the car to a halt, and Sherlock jumped out, saying something about a visit to the minister. Molly sat in the car, eyes wide, brow furrowed, trying not to hyperventilate. Mary reached back and patted her knee.

 

“Oh, Molly,” she said, frowning. “It will be alright!” John looked back at her, and frowned as well. “Look Molly, you really, really don't have to do this. I can take you back home right now, or to work, or...” he trailed off, looking a bit panicked by the hysteria in Molly's eyes. She took a deep breath and blew it out, shaking her head. “Men have died. People are in danger. I can do this,” she said, and exited the car. Mary lead her around to the front doors of the church, where Anthea and Mrs Hudson were ready and waiting, with a little girl. A little girl in a poofy little pink dress, with blonde ringlets. The little girl was holding a basket of flower petals. Molly frowned, confused, and Mrs Hudson shrugged. “Sherlock seems to have hired her,” she said, sounding less than pleased. Molly sighed. She looked around, and was alarmed by the number of vehicles around the building. “Are there many people, then?” She asked as Mrs Hudson handed her the pretty bouquet. The older woman just nodded, starting to look a touch misty-eyed again. Molly frowned at that, and at the little smile Anthea was sporting. Mary just looked a bit upset. She opened her mouth to speak, but the church door opened just then. Mark popped out, looking a bit overwhelmed in the suit Sherlock had thrown at him.

 

“Well then Snaps,” he said, voice sounding oddly thick. “Mr Holmes said I should be the one to give you away, as I'm the oldest male in the family. He also says you're to try to remember the walk training you had, and that you shouldn't rush.” Molly nodded, thinking back on the training, which had consisted of her taking slow, tiny steps through the sitting room while Sherlock yelled at her. Mark blew out a big breath of air, and nodded to the ladies, who slipped into the church. Molly smiled helplessly at her brother. He was frowning, and his eyes were a little red around the edges.

 

“Are you sure, Molly? About all this, I mean,” he asked, flapping a hand toward the church. Molly gazed at him tenderly, and nodded. “I am,” she replied quietly. There was a quiet moment as Mark stepped beside her and she hooked her arm around his. She was very aware of the fact that he was trembling, and her brother frowned at her. “They made me promise not to hug you, said I'd muss you up or something. But I'd hug you if I could.” Molly gave a desperate little laugh at that, and squeezed his arm tighter. He leaned in closer. “If this bloke does anything to hurt you, though, us lads'll make quick work of him, mind. I've been doing rugby again, too, so he'd be well taken care of.” Molly frowned up at him, ready to snap something about keeping his nose out of her business, when the church doors opened in front of her. Mark walked her into the church, and Molly felt her heart stop.

 

Just inside of the church, there sat a group of five or six men and women, playing cellos. The music washed over her, a full, warm sound. The daylight in the church came entirely from the large window behind the altar. Everything else was lit by candles and sparkling little fairy lights. Tall, thin tapered ones, and fat little ones. At each pew, there was a beautiful cluster of white roses, daisies, and babies breath, bound with what looked like white silk. It dipped and rose from pew to pew, a gentle wave of white. The windows were decorated in a similar way, with soft fabric draping down against the glass, shining in the glow of the strands of fairy lights, which hung along the window frames. The altar was gorgeous, set with big, fat beeswax candles, and with the most beautiful arrangement of flowers Molly had ever seen! The most gorgeous roses, gardenias, chrysanthemums, daisies and lilies, spread on a white cloth, with sweet tendrils of ivy cascading down from under the soft petals. But what really made Molly's throat tighten, were the people. The pews were absolutely full of people! Many from her side of the family, and a few from St. Bart's. They stood as Molly entered, and there were gasps and whispers, soft murmurs that filled the air for a moment as the music lulled. Then, the cellists lifted their bows, and began playing once again. Molly gave a little gasp, and tears softened her eyes. They played softly, slowly, but she recognized the song.

 

It was Something, by The Beatles. It was her favourite song, one that her father used to play whenever she was sad. Her heart soared and wrenched in the same moment, and she looked up toward the end of the aisle. Mrs Hudson, Anthea and Mary stood on one side, and on the other stood John, Mycroft and Greg. A smiling little bald priest stood up by the altar. And-

 

Sherlock.

 

Sherlock stood there, staring at her. His head was tilted, and he was gazing at her with the most breathtaking smile on his face. From where she stood, Molly could see the tears in his eyes. He was staring at her as though she were the most beautiful thing he had ever laid eyes on, and her heart started to beat again, thudding hard against her ribcage. She remembered little of walking down the aisle. The air smelled of flowers and honey from the candles, and Sherlock was giving her a look of adoration. She felt drunk. When she reached the end of the aisle, Mark patted her hand and kissed her on the cheek, openly crying. He sat in the front pew, next to her mother, who was sobbing into her handkerchief again, and with her two other brothers, who looked weepy as well. Molly stepped up beside Sherlock, Mary stepping forward to take her bouquet.

 

Sherlock reached forward and slipped his hands into hers. Molly looked at their hands, his so big compared to hers, and then up at him. His eyes were shining, and his smile was so genuine that she found herself smiling back. She was vaguely aware of the music fading to a close, and the reverend beginning to speak.

 

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today in the sight of God to join this man and this woman in the bonds of holy matrimony,” he said in a pleasant, deep, fruity voice. Molly smiled up at him, but her eyes immediately went back to Sherlock. He winked at her, and she couldn't help but giggle a little, making his smile widen.

 

The ceremony was a short one, but it was sweet. The reverend was kindly, and managed to bring gentle, happy laughter at his sermon. It all went in a blur to Molly, who was just holding onto Sherlock's hands for dear life. After a while, though, it was time for the vows. “Sherlock, if you would please repeat after me.” The detective took a small step forward, gazing down at Molly, biting his lip a little. The reverend spoke the vows, and then went quiet. Sherlock took a deep breath, and repeated.

 

“I, Sherlock Holmes, do take you, Molly Hooper, to be my wife, my constant friend, my faithful partner, and my _love_ , from this day forward, till death do us part,” he murmured. His voice was deep, and thick with emotion as he gazed at her. Molly felt her tears fall from her eyes, and in a moment of tenderness, Sherlock reached up and cupped her face, wiping away the tears with his thumb. Molly gave a little gasping laugh, leaning into his hand, eyes half shut. Then it was her turn.

 

“I, Molly Hooper, do take you, Sherlock Holmes, to be my wi- er, husband,” she said, and Sherlock gave a startled, merry little laugh at her mistake. The reverend did as well, and held up his hands, with a cheery little, “Don't worry, it still counts!” Molly giggled, cleared her throat, and started again. “I, Molly Hooper, do take you, Sherlock Holmes, to be my husband, my constant friend, my faithful partner, and my love, from this day forward, till death do us part.” Her voice was cracking a little as she finished, and she squeezed his hands tighter, biting her lower lip to try to reign in her emotions. “And now, the giving of the rings,” announced the reverend. Molly felt a tap at her shoulder, and turned to see a teary Mary holding out a little box. Molly took the gold band from it, and turned back to Sherlock, who had just taken a ring from John. As the reverend directed, Sherlock lifted Molly's hand, and slowly slid the ring onto her finger, gazing into her eyes all the while.

 

“With this ring, I thee wed,” he said softly. Molly gave him a watery smile, and slid her ring onto his finger. “With this ring, I thee wed,” she echoed. Her heart was thudding painfully now, and felt almost dizzy with emotion. There was a quiet voice in her mind, whispering about how she would come to regret this, how none of it was real. She felt a pang at that, but it was drowned out by the voice of the reverend.

 

“In as much as Sherlock and Molly have consented together in holy wedlock, and have declared their love with the giving and receiving of these rings, I declare that they are now man and wife. Sherlock, you may kiss your bride.”

 

Molly stared up at Sherlock, and felt nerves bundling in her stomach. He was giving her a look of such love and passion, she could almost feel it on her skin. He took a step forward, and slid his hands down to her waist. For a moment they were both still, eyes locked, a breath apart. And then he blinked, and leaned down, pressing his lips against hers. All of the nerves exploded in her at once, and she reached up, fingers sliding into his hair. His soft, soft lips hardened against hers, and he half lifted her, bringing her to his height, pulling her tight against his chest. Molly could only wrap her arms around his neck and hold on for dear life. He tasted like peppermint, and she nipped gently at his mouth, making him growl very quietly in his throat. Everyone in the church was on their feet, applauding. Petals were thrown at them. Sherlock's hands tightened at Molly's waist, and he pulled back very suddenly, staring down at her with wide, startled eyes. For a moment, his façade slipped. Then he pulled the smile back into place and wrapped his arms around Molly in a big hug. His mouth at her ear, he whispered, “The reporters at the back of the room got some lovely shots, I'm certain. Well done, _wife_.” The reverend raised his hands and called out, “Ladies and gentlemen, it is my absolute pleasure to introduce you to Sherlock and Molly Holmes!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of, you GUYS. Thank you so much for all the feedback, you have been incredible, and I am elated!
> 
> Secondly, I was planning on getting this out much closer to noon my time, but it's Valentine's Day, and it's the wedding, and you have all been so lovely, and I really wanted to get it right. I hope you liked it, I won't lie, I got a little weepy writing this. Please do comment, let me know how you like it, and thank you so very much for absolutely EVERYTHING!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I dedicate this chapter to Kate. Seriously. I was having a glum day, and I logged on here, and found a bunch of comments from her, and it really cheered me up, and was lovely, so thank you so much, Kate! I hope this is sufficiently fluffy. :}

Sherlock pulled Molly after the reverend into a small back room, where they were made to sign a wedding certificate. Sherlock signed his name easily, and Molly followed his example, feeling more than a little dazed. Then, the smiling man congratulated them again, and left to make announcements to the congregation. Sherlock and Molly looked at each other, both completely silent. Sherlock was staring, unblinking, his eyes calculating and curious. Molly knew she was blushing. As the detective opened his mouth, ready to speak, the reverend bounced back in, beaming. “They are ready for you, my dears,” he said, clapping his hands together. Molly looked up at Sherlock and gave him a shy little smile. He smiled back, his mask back in place, and reached for her hand. She gave it, and smiled a little wider at the sight of his long fingers sliding into the gaps between hers. Then they were walking back down the aisle toward the open church doors, past the cheering, applauding congregation. Cameras were flashing, and the little girl with the basket was pelting them with rose petals. They emerged from the church, both smiling in the sunlight, and Sherlock paused, holding her back and slipping an arm around her waist. As she looked up at him, he caught her lips in another kiss, pulling her in tight. She made a startled little noise, and hardly had time to pucker back before he had pulled away, grinning cheekily. She grinned faintly back, blinking in the light of a dozen camera flashes. She was dimly aware of people shouting.

 

“Molly Holmes! Mrs Holmes! How are you feeling?”

 

“Mr Holmes, how long have you and Molly been together?”

 

“Mr Holmes! How is this going to effect your relationship with John Watson?”

 

Everyone was yelling, and Molly clung to Sherlock, feeling worried. He leaned in and put his lips to her ear. “I recommend you go to the reporter from The Daily Mail, there on your left. I'll start with The Times. Keep it brief, then go straight to Mary.” He pressed a light kiss to her cheek, and nudged her gently off to the side. Molly glanced after him, and went to her assigned reporter. The interview went quickly.

 

“Mrs Molly Holmes! Jennifer Miles here, from The Daily Mail. Quick couple of questions, how long have you and Sherlock been together?”

 

“Oh, um, difficult to say, really. Ehm, long enough for all of this to happen.”

 

“Right, right, 'all this' being quite a lot, really! How far along are you?”

 

“About five months.”

 

“Wow! Congratulations, of course. Have you found out whether it's a boy or a girl yet?”

 

“Oh! Well, um, not yet, no. I think we'd rather be surprised.”

 

“You seem to be a surprising couple! How does it feel, being married to one of the most famous men in the country?”

 

“Well, bit of a shock, really. I don't think marriage was really being planned on either end, definitely not mine, but, you know, babies and things. Priorities change. Um.”

 

“How scary! Finding out you're married, and then getting dragged down the aisle?”

 

“Well, I wouldn't say _dragged_ -”

 

“Sort of pushed into it a bit, though, wouldn't you say?”

 

“Well, sure, I suppose?”

 

“Well! Thank you for speaking to us, could I get a closing comment?”

 

“Um... Thank you?” Molly flapped her hands around with a nervous smile, feeling decidedly uncomfortable and trying not to look directly into the camera flashes. At her awkward closing statement, the reporter pulled out her phone and began shouting into it, walking off with a camera crew close at her heels. Molly scurried off through the crowd until she found Mary and John. Mary made a little shrieking noise and pulled her in close for a tight hug. “That was incredible! I was sobbing all the way through, I really was. And talk about a kiss at the altar, mmm?” she exclaimed, winking cheekily at Molly. John made a funny noise beside her, before also pulling the young bride in for a hug. “Are you alright?” he muttered in her ear, and Molly nodded. She was, really, for the most part.

 

Mrs Hudson came blustering through, guiding Mark and Greg, who were carrying a large table. Anthea was gliding along after them with the cake, and Mycroft with a few bottles of champagne. Molly's mum was going from guest to guest, giving everyone pretty little plastic champagne flutes. On seeing her daughter, the tears started up again, and she kissed Molly on the cheek, beaming at her.

 

“Lovely, absolutely lovely! It almost felt real!” Molly hissed at her mum, frowning and batting at her, till the older woman handed her a glass and moved on. Molly looked around and spotted Sherlock, speaking with a reporter. In the bright spring sunlight, he was a tall, lanky shadow. His skin was pale, his hair was black, and his well-fitting suit just showed how lean he was. His eyes looked silver, peering out above frankly ridiculous cheekbones. She sighed. She had fallen for a man who was, for all intents and purposes, a panther. Intelligent, cruel, sneaky, but deep down inside essentially an overgrown kitten. It was really rather unfortunate, she thought.

 

The cellists had set up on the front path to the church. The cake was set up, and champagne was being distributed. The air smelled like flowers and warm earth, and Molly couldn't help but smile. Sherlock looked around, and then strode toward her. As soon as he was in front of her, he allowed the smile to drop. He looked rather annoyed. He pulled her in for a hug, muttering about the ridiculous priorities and vain, self-indulgent ramblings that were even now taking the place of real news, important news. He was ranting, but all the while, his hand slid up and down her back lazily, and Molly found she didn't mind very much at all. Mycroft sidled up beside them.

 

“Enjoying yourself, brother mine?” he drawled, smiling. Sherlock huffed and said nothing, straightening, but not releasing his hold on Molly, tucking her head under his chin as he spoke over top of her. “Do you think they realize how incredibly dull they are?” Mycroft chuckled, and was then nudged out of the way by Mrs Hudson, who patted Molly on the shoulder. “It's time to cut the cake, you two!” she squeaked excitedly, tears somehow still streaming down her face. Molly tugged herself out of Sherlock's arms and looked up at him with a tiny smile as he glowered. Then he slipped back into character, beaming, although a muscle under his eye was twitching. Molly giggled at the sight, and he sighed, wrapping an arm around her waist and walking her to the cake table.

 

Sherlock stood her in front of the table, positioning himself behind her. He slid his hands down over her arms, taking her hands, and guiding them to the knife. They sliced the cake together, Molly blushing the entire time. In the spirit of tradition, she turned and squashed a piece of cake into his mouth, grinning at his bewildered expression. He smirked a little, and cut off a small piece as well, holding it in front of Molly's face. She cautiously leaned in to bite, and he popped the cake into her open mouth, smearing icing on her mouth as he went. When she had chewed and swallowed, she reached for a napkin, but the detective had other plans. He slipped a hand into her hair and let the other rest low on her hip, pulling her in close. Molly only had a moment to blink before he lowered, capturing her bottom lip and sucking the icing from it. Molly's knees went weak, and she gasped against his mouth, feeling a throb from low in her belly. Instinctively, she leaned up higher, pressing her lips hard against his own. Sherlock made a startled little breathy noise against her mouth, and pulled back a little, eyes narrowing on her face, looking a bit confused. Molly looked away, blushing.

 

“Anyone for cake?” she squeaked, waving the knife around in a slight panic.

 

Three small glasses of champagne later, Sherlock was wandering around, smiling much more easily. Molly was drinking orange juice, though Mary promised there was a bottle of champagne at Baker Street with her name on it. Molly was chatting with her mum, when she became aware of a tall presence at her shoulder. Sherlock put his mouth to her ear again.

 

“One of my network has spotted a strange man walking past the church repeatedly. It is likely that this is our murderer. I will shortly announce the end of the reception, if you would prepare to return to Baker Street. I ask that you remain there until I return with news, you may take my bedroom if proceedings take longer than expected.” Then he was gone. Molly huffed, glaring a little at his retreating back.

 

“Everything okay?” asked her mum. “Oh, yes, it is, I just- He does have the most remarkable tendency to pop in, say something worrying, and then twirl away as though it's nothing,” grumped the bride. But she took another piece of cake and stole a ribbon from a pew, to keep as a memory, and was just going toward Mary for her bouquet when Sherlock clapped his hands to get everyone's attention.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen, on behalf of Molly and myself, I would just like to say thank you all for coming to our wedding. It has been a pleasure, but it is time for us now to part ways. I believe the missus has a baby shower to get to, and the gentlemen and myself will all be going off to the pub for a small party. Thank you all, and goodbye.” There was some scattered applause as he turned and walked off to help divvy up the cake for anyone who wanted to take some home. Molly sighed, and went on over to Mary, smiling tiredly at her. She was just getting ready to ask what the plan was now, when Sherlock bounded over.

 

“John, I need you with me, the suspect has been spotted again, hovering around the church with a camera. You can chat with the women later,” he said, grabbing John by the arm. He nodded to Mary as he did so, then turned to Molly, took her face in his hands, and kissed her hard. Molly made a soft noise as he practically lifted her off her feet, before releasing her quickly, and squinting at her face. “Interesting,” he muttered to himself, before grabbing John and leaving again. Molly turned to Mary as she tried to get her breath. Mary was laughing into her fist. She shrugged.

 

“You know what, Molly, I do believe kissing has become his latest experiment,” she said conspiratorially, and the ladies laughed a little at the thought before heading toward the car, Molly touching her lips curiously.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wedding over, my goodness! Let's see what comes next, then, eh? Thank you for reading!


	7. Chapter 7

The ride back to Baker Street was noisy. Mrs Hudson and Molly's mum were prattling on at great length about how beautiful everything was, and now and then Mary would jump in with some other magical little detail. Molly was mostly quiet, though. She had been dressed up, she had gone through the ceremony, she had even managed the small reception-like gathering afterwards. Now, she had time to sit back and think.

 

Married.

 

She was married.

 

No matter how the rest of the week went, this was going to be the day she got married, just as tomorrow would be the day she became unmarried.

 

She had married Sherlock Holmes. He had kissed her a number of times. They'd had as close to a fairytale wedding as Molly had ever expected to have.

 

Married.

 

Her mind seemed to get that far, and then freeze. So she stared out the window, quietly frowning, fiddling with her rings. Luckily, the other women seemed to understand her need to withdraw, and they mostly left her alone to do a bit of brooding.

 

When they arrived at Baker Street, the entire group went back up to Sherlock's apartment to help Molly defrock. The dress was slipped off and tucked back into the garment bag. The fat little veil was thrown into a corner to be dealt with later. Molly's bouquet was put in a vase on water, Mrs Hudson tittering about how the flowers were just too pretty to throw out right away, don't you agree? Mary brought forth a big tub of make-up remover, and sat Molly down in a chair to start dismantling her face. The TV was turned on. The news channels were going crazy. Everyone seemed to have footage of Sherlock and Molly coming out the church doors. Molly could only just recognize herself, by the nervous smile on her face. Sherlock looked tender and affectionate, if not a touch apprehensive. He played the part of groom-and-dad-to-be perfectly. As Mary wiped away the last of the make-up, the TV began showing a series of photos from the wedding ceremony itself. The giving of the rings, the exchanging of vows... The kiss.

 

Molly sat up straight in her chair as the picture blinked onto the screen. Sherlock's hand cradling her head, Molly pressed up against him. The way he claimed her mouth, with his eyes slitted, looking down at her. She remembered the way he had growled at her. And as the next photo popped up, him embracing her and whispering in her ear with a look of elation on his face, she remembered the words he had whispered, about the press surely getting some good photos. He had been right.

 

Mary held a mirror in front of Molly's face, saying, “There we go, all back to normal!” and Molly looked at the pale face, the big eyes, the small mouth, the plain clothes and the pushed back hair. Then she looked back at the screen, where Sherlock was smiling down at her and tucking her under his arm as she beamed at him. Emotions were overwhelming her. She was overjoyed, though she didn't know if it was joy at the wedding being over, or at the wedding having happened. Incredibly sad, though she didn't know if it was sadness at the wedding being over, or at the wedding having happened. All her feelings and thoughts were mixing and getting confused, and Molly couldn't seem to pick them apart to deal with them. So she did the only thing she could think to do. Much to the alarm of the ladies around her, she abruptly burst into tears.

 

Half an hour later, Mrs Hudson, Molly, Molly's mum, and Mary were all sitting in a cluster around the remains of the wedding cake, passing a bottle of champagne around. Mrs Hudson had popped down into her flat at the first sob, and collected a pint of ice cream, some tissues, and an 'herbal soother', “Just in case, dear.” Molly was beginning to feel a bit tiddly.

 

“It's just so, so incredibly awful, you know? I waited so long for him to notice me, and then he does and I have to marry him? For a case? A case he'll probably forget about right away! Isn't that just a perfect bloody metaphor for my bloody life...” she trailed off, digging viciously into the ice cream. Champagne was pushed her way, and she sniffled. “I mean, I know he wasn't just magically going to get feelings for me, and I knew this wedding would only make me miserable, but he caused so much bloody- I mean, I thought it was about time he made it up to me, right? Right? But he- He gave me a perfect wedding, and he doesn't even understand, he doesn't even _care_ -” The conversation went on like this for a while, Molly finishing half the bottle on her own while her bridal party took turns patting her back and cooing words of comfort.

 

At around eight o'clock, Molly's mum said she needed to go tend to supper. Mrs Hudson went downstairs to do the same. Mary said she was going to set up John's room, she figured she'd likely be staying there that night. Molly was left alone in the sitting room. She stared around glumly, a little drunk, a lot sad, and becoming rather bored. The telly was no good, she could only watch herself feeding Sherlock cake so many times. The books were no good, she could never focus long on a book when she drank. So she stumbled off down the hall to investigate Sherlock's room.

 

It was a good sized room, she thought, though it really was rather bare. A couple of sciencey posters on the wall, a low bookcase, a mirror, a chair... The bed. It was a big old thing. A sleigh bed, she thought, though she wasn't entirely sure what counted as a sleigh bed. It looked very comfortable though. After a moment of hesitation, Molly crawled into the bed, pulling the covers up to her chin, and rubbing her face into the pillow. It smelled like him. Like peppermint, tea, and soap, with just a hint of cigarette smoke. She nuzzled into the pillow, breathing deeply.

 

Molly awoke a while later, aware of voices outside the bedroom door.

 

“I don't know, dear. I came up a couple hours ago with some food, and she was just curled up in there! Oh, she's in a right state, the poor thing.”

 

“Yes, well, you'd probably best head back to your flat, I think we've got it covered from here.” John, she thought sleepily. There was a click, and then the door creaked open. There was silence. Then, “Well, you did offer her your room.” Silence again. Then the door creaking shut again. Molly stayed still, her body heavy and her head sleepy, though she knew she should probably go see what was going on. There was a loud sigh from somewhere above her, and her eyes opened into slits.

 

“Molly,” she heard a deep voice say softly. Sherlock. He was back. “Molly, are you awake?” Molly forced her breathing to stay deep and even. Another sigh from above her. Then, there were funny little shifting noises, sounds like fabric hitting the floor, all with a constant flow of low grumbling from the detective. Molly felt the bed shift, and the covers lifting, cool air hitting her body. Sherlock was crawling in beside her. Molly frowned a little. It didn't seem like him to share a bed with anyone else. But then, she had stolen his bed, where else was he to sleep. She bit her lip. The bed continued bending and shifting as the detective tried to get comfortable. After a few minutes, he went still.

 

Champagne made Molly bold. While a little voice in her head demanded she keep still, another voice whispered that they were married, and sharing a bed. After a moment of thought, Molly rolled over, facing Sherlock in the dark. Her rolling landed her an inch or two away from the detective, her face close to his chest. Without giving herself time to reconsider, she reached out. Her arm slipped up around his shoulders, and her legs tangled with his.

 

Sherlock went very, very still. Molly made herself breathe as though she was still asleep. She even threw in a little snore for good measure. She felt a great heavy sigh ruffling her hair. Then, rather to Molly's surprise, she felt Sherlock move. An arm slid over her side, brushing her hip, and resting on her back. He pulled her in close, her chest to his, her face into the crook where shoulder meets neck. That was the moment Molly really deciphered the rustling noises she had heard. It was Sherlock taking off his clothes.

 

Sherlock slept in the nude.

 

Molly felt the blush starting somewhere around her knees. It was growing and spreading, making her feel hot and bothered. She took a deep breath. Then, she let it out in a yawn, and snuggled closer. Her fingers slid down the long, well-muscled back. Through the thin fabric of her shirt (she couldn't remember taking off her bra, though she guessed she must have at some point), she could feel his chest, hard compared to hers. She stretched out her legs, and one settled high on his hip. Molly heard Sherlock's breath hitch in his throat. She felt far too pleased with herself. The hand on her back tightened its hold. Her body was pulled in even tighter. The long fingers splayed across her back, and she nuzzled against Sherlock's throat.

 

Molly felt triumphant. She had married the only consulting detective in the world, and now she was cuddling with him. He was naked, and he was in bed with her. Hah! Hurrah! She couldn't feel much below the waist, curse her thick pants, but the knowledge of what her pelvis was pressed against? Her blush had gone right up over her scalp. Her entire body was now tomato red. The alcohol was making her feel risky, and she felt a strong urge to kiss that throat she was snuggled against. But the events of the day had exhausted her. Her eyes felt sticky, and the feeling of Sherlock's chest, moving and breathing in time with her own, was as soothing as a lullaby. Resolving to be a brave person another day, Molly slipped back into sleep. She didn't hear the final sigh above her, and she didn't feel the light kiss pressed to the top of her head. She also didn't feel the hand sliding up her back, feeling the curve of her spine, and sliding back down, measuring the curve of the hip and the swell of the buttocks. She slept deeply. Sherlock did not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reception this story has been getting is just overwhelming. Thank you so much to everyone who has commented and kudoseded, it means the world to me! I'm sorry this chapter took a while to get out, my life has gotten a little hectic. But I hope you enjoy it, and I'll try to update quicker this time.
> 
> Comment, let me know what you think, and thank you for reading. :}


	8. Chapter 8

When Molly woke up the next morning, it was to a headache and an empty bed. She gave a soft groan and pushed herself up, rubbing at her eyes and pushing the tangled hair out of her face. She looked around blearily, taking stock.

 

“Bed: Definitely lacking in Sherlock.

 

Sun: Far to high in the sky for my liking.

 

Head: Trying to kill me.

 

Stomach: So empty it hurts.

 

Mouth: Tastes of dead animals and regret.” With a heavy sigh, Molly peeled herself out of the bed, opened the door, and shuffled out into the hall. She came through to the kitchen, and then stopped. Sherlock, John and Mycroft were all sitting around the table. They looked up when she entered the room. John looked tense, Sherlock was all but pouting, and Mycroft just looked rather smug. Molly blinked a few times.

 

“Ehm- Good morning?” she said hesitantly. Mycroft smiled.

 

“Ah, Mrs Holmes, how lovely you do look,” he said. Molly blushed a little at the title, and shrugged. “Soon to be Miss Hooper again, though, I suppose,” she replied, scuffling awkwardly over to the kettle, which was steaming. She began fixing her much needed cup of tea, when John cleared his throat. Molly paused with the sugar in her hand, and looked over at the three of them. The tension was rising at the table. Molly frowned. “What is it, what's wrong?” she asked. John coughed, and then stood, walking over to her.

 

“Tell you what, I'll make a pot, you'd probably best sit down,” he said, not quite meeting her eye. Molly's frown deepened, but she complied, sitting down in front of the Holmes brothers. Mycroft looked a bit more annoyed, and Sherlock was glowering at the table. There was silence for a bit, and Molly fiddled with her rings anxiously.

 

“Who died?” she asked finally. She meant it in a joking way, but even she could hear how small and nervous her voice was. Mycroft chuckled a little, fiddling with his umbrella. He looked up at her, baring his teeth.

 

“None, I'm afraid. Not even the slightest bit,” he said. Molly frowned, and then something in her mind clicked.

 

“You didn't find the killer, then, did you?” she asked. Sherlock made an irritated clucking noise, crossed his arms, and leaned away from the table. Mycroft frowned at him, and then turned back to Molly. “Afraid not. It seems our attempt to make the wedding newsworthy went a touch too far. We gained a great deal of publicity, you see, and it's difficult to stage a murder when your target is surrounded by the press,” he explained. Molly nodded. “I suppose so. Still, only a matter of time, though, right?” A mug of tea slammed down in front of her and spilled a little. Molly jumped, and looked up at John, who was stammering apologies and grabbing a cloth to wipe up the mess. Molly frowned. She seemed to be doing that a lot this morning. She looked back at Sherlock and Mycroft, and then up at John as he cleaned up the tea and sat down again. The three of them looked rather decidedly uncomfortable now.

 

“Well, I mean, you'll find another way to catch him, right? There must be other leads, or other clues, or something...” she trailed off. Sherlock cleared his throat, and then looked at her. His eyes were narrowed a little, staring intently into her own. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingers steepled. Molly recognized it as his 'I am now going to go on and on and on and on about a case for a while, so that you may praise my genius' pose, so she sat back, mug in hand, and waited.

 

“In a sense, yes, other leads, other clues. Or rather, a clue we had not noticed before. In two of the cases, the killer waited till the ceremony was done, presumably to ensure that the target was his type, and then asphyxiated the groom, before mutilating the body and fleeing the scene. In the third however, the killer waited for Edward Shannon to return from his honeymoon before dispatching him. Initially, I assumed this was due to an error in the killer's timing, that he held off till a moment too late, and then waited for the groom to return to his fate.” Sherlock paused, brow furrowed. He looked cross. “I admit, I failed to understand the situation fully. You see, when Edward Shannon and Gwendolyn Martin announced their engagement, it received some attention from those in the press who had not forgotten that Edward's uncle had been a rather notorious criminal. A drug lord, convicted of murder, who was sentenced to death, and demanded he face a firing squad, rather than more modern and 'humane' modes of dispatch? The trial and execution were featured in every newspaper, on every station, discussed at length for weeks following the events. Someone heard Edward Shannon's name, put two and two together, and as a result, his wedding was featured on a few news channels. It seems likely, in light of recent events, that the killer may have waited for Edward Shannon to return from his honeymoon, so the story would have time to die down, thus keeping the murder from becoming fully covered by the press.” Molly blinked a few times, nodding slowly. “Right, I suppose that makes sense. So you think the killer is avoiding coming after you till after the press cools down?” she asked. Sherlock nodded. Molly shrugged, drinking some tea. “Well, then, it'll just take a little longer to trap him, there's no need for you lot to look so grim!”

 

The men stared at her. Molly stared back. Then she shrugged again. Typical men. One little speed bump in the case, and they turn into a bunch of infants. With a small smile, she stood up, the tea doing wonders for her head already. “Tell you what, I'll make us all a spot of breakfast, then we can go take care of the annulment, and we'll figure out what to do next, okay?” She turned to the fridge to search for eggs, when John piped up.

 

“Um, about that. See, these two, they tend to skim over- Um, well, the rather more _important_ , that is-”

 

“We can't get the marriage annulled, Molly.”

 

Molly froze. Then she turned very slowly, and looked at Sherlock. He was gazing at her, brow furrowed, and she could feel her blood pressure rising. Mycroft cleared his throat and straightened in his chair, fixing her with his gaze.

 

“You see, the problem is, my dear little brother did create a rather large stir with your wedding. The scandal of it has created quite the buzz. Everybody is talking about it. If you were to end the marriage, the story would likely be out within minutes. You wouldn't be able to move for all the microphones thrust in your face. The killer would hear of it, and one of two things would happen. He or she would decide that Sherlock no longer needs to die, or, an intelligent person would catch on to the idea that perhaps it was the slap-dash wedding of an illustrious detective, intended to catch the killer by way of a trap. Either way, we would lose out on our one big opportunity to catch the villain.” His teeth were showing again, and there was a strangely gleeful look in his eye. Molly's mouth was dry and she was beginning to panic a little. Sherlock gave an irritated little shrug.

 

“Well, if that's all dealt with, I'd like fried eggs, toast, sausage and beans... Wife,” he said. Molly squeaked. John kicked the detective, hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seriously can't thank you folks enough. The comments, the kudos, LORDY MY HEAD IS SPINNING!
> 
> So here we go then, they are staying married. My goodness, who could have seen this one coming? I hope you all enjoyed this chapter, feel free to comment and let me know what you think, and thank you for reading!


	9. Chapter 9

Molly was pacing. She was pacing, breathing hard, muttering, and wringing her hands. All three men were watching her. After a while, she snapped her head up to frown at them.

 

“So what do we think the killer knows at this point?” she asked. Mycroft arched an eyebrow.

 

“That you are pregnant, married before you felt it was your time to wed, and that the happy couple is now living together and looking for a new home to better accommodate a child.” Molly nodded. “But then I don't understand, we could get it annulled and just not tell anyone about it!” she insisted. Sherlock made an irritated noise and jumped up, starting to pace as well.

 

“It appears the press has taken a considerable interest in our marriage. We have been receiving calls all morning about honeymoon plans, if we know the gender of the baby, if we've picked out names, what neighbourhood we wish to live in. There are news vans stationed all down the street to catch a glimpse of the happy couple, off to Vienna, or whichever blasted city John decided to say we were visiting. The moment our marriage ends, the world will hear of it.” Molly spluttered for a moment, brow furrowing, eyes watering. “Couldn't we explain that we are attempting to catch a murderer, and that they need to not print anything, or they would be interfering with the case, or something?” Sherlock sneered. “Yes, because of course, that sort of thing DOES work so incredibly well. Brilliant plan, Molly. Let's go ask the press to not do their jobs, why didn't I think of that?” With that, he stomped down the hall in the direction of his room. A moment later, the door slammed shut. Molly was staring resolutely at the floor, eyes welling up, feeling hungover and humiliated. The kitchen was silent for a while. Then Mycroft cleared his throat, and stood from the table. Molly didn't bother looking up as he left the apartment. After a while, John stood, and came to stand beside her, resting his hands on her shoulders.

 

“Tell you what, go sit down, try to relax, I'll make something to eat,” he offered quietly. Molly nodded, and shuffled into the living room, sitting stiffly on the couch. She noticed a few large cardboard boxes by the front door, and blinked at them. One was labelled 'Clothing', another was labelled 'Books'. Her laptop was sitting on top of them. She felt a sense of panic rising in the back of her throat. John popped into the room a moment later with a cup of tea, and looked at the boxes as well. He stopped. And then he cleared his throat awkwardly when Molly looked up at him.

 

“Sherlock thought it best for you to stay here for a while, until the case gets solved. I think he said it would just be easier, so nobody would see you, out and about and not pregnant, and that it would be safer, what with a killer out there...” he trailed off. Molly was biting her lip, her chin was wobbling, everything was overwhelming. John gave her such a sad, apologetic look, she felt quite pathetic. “You get my old room, if it's any consolation, you don't need to keep on sharing his.” He sighed. “You don't need to put up with this, you know. You could leave, nobody would blame you.” Molly shrugged. “I can't though, can I? Not really, not with dead people, and a killer, and all my things-” she stopped, shaking her head. They both went quiet. John handed her the tea, and after she had finished it, he helped her to carry the boxes upstairs. He very quietly left them beside the bedroom door, and kindly left her alone.

 

Molly stepped into the room and looked around. It was a bit small, most of the space taken up by the double bed and dresser. The wallpaper was a sort of grey pattern, not at all like the cheery yellow floral design of her own room. It was clean at least, the dresser recently dusted, the wooden floor shining. Taking a deep breath, Molly went to her boxes and opened them up. First she took out her clothes, a random collection of shirts, pants and undergarments, and folded them away. Her favourite books were arranged on top of the dresser, but the rest she left in the box, unwilling to unpack fully. She plugged in her laptop to charge, and then tested out the bed. It was a bit hard, but the stripy duvet would be warm on chilly nights, and the sheets were clean. After some consideration, Molly dug out her shampoo, and shuffled back down the stairs to search out a shower.

 

Peeling out of her dirty clothes and standing under a stream of hot water definitely helped make her feel better, as it normally did. Surprisingly, she found the shower curtain was a bright yellow with a pattern of red flowers on it. With the white tiles and towels, it reminded Molly of home. As steam filled the bathroom and the smell of her coconut shampoo surrounded her, she felt some of the tension and stress melt away. She was just rinsing the bubbles from her hair, when she heard a knock at the bathroom door. She frowned.

 

“Yes?” She called.

 

“We need to discuss a new course of action,” came the reply. Sherlock. Molly sighed. “Sherlock, I'm in the shower!” Silence. Molly waited for a response, and when none came, she reached for the bar of soap. She heard a click, then the door banging open. The shower curtain was pulled back to reveal Sherlock, pacing, and already spewing out information.

 

“I have been catching up on the latest news. The current story being circulated is that you and I are searching for a family home, and that we are postponing a honeymoon until such a time as-” Sherlock was interrupted by Molly's furious little squawk as she tugged the shower curtain her body.

 

“SHERLOCK! What do you think you're _doing_?” she demanded, blushing hard. Sherlock stopped pacing and stared at Molly. He held her gaze for just a beat too long, before starting to pace once again. “I am attempting to explain to you the situation, so that we can come up with a new plan, together, to avoid another situation where I am 'stepping on your feelings,'” he snapped, sounding irritated, crooking his fingers in the air almost aggressively. Molly sighed heavily, letting her head drop back against the wall behind her.

 

“Sherlock, I woke up this morning with a hangover, your brother telling me we have to stay married, you stomping around like a child, with boxes of my things, which I _did not_ give you permission to get from my flat, sitting in the hallway, because I'm apparently not allowed to leave here, which we did NOT discuss, and now I am trying to shower, and I really don't want you in here with me while I'm naked!” she said, very quickly, squinting up at the ceiling, starting to feel quite hysterical. When the detective didn't respond, Molly slowly looked back at him, her heart pounding, her eye twitching. Sherlock was staring at her, brow lowered, a thoughtful expression on his face. When Molly met his gaze, he opened his mouth, as if to speak, paused, and then turned and abruptly left, closing the door hard behind him. Molly stared after him for a long moment, not at all sure what to make of the strange moment.

 

After the suds had all been washed away, Molly stepped out, patted herself down, and wrapped up in a big, fluffy towel. She tiptoed out of the bathroom and made a beeline for the stairs, not at all in the mood to discuss plans with wet hair and a lack of pants. But as she reached the steps, she found them blocked. Sherlock was sitting on the first stair, elbows on his knees, fingers pressed against his chin, brow furrowed. He stood as Molly approached, and cleared his throat, staring at her shoulder. He looked distinctly uncomfortable.

 

“Molly, I have been considering my behaviour since yesterday morning. It occurs to me that since you agreed to assist me in solving the case, I have been rather rude. I apologize for any ways in which I may have made you uncomfortable, and I shall do my best to better respect your boundaries in future,” he said. His apology over, his eyes finally moved to meet Molly's. She was lost for words. It was still strange trying to get used to a Sherlock who apologized for his mistakes, and his apologies were never so wordy. After a long moment, she began nodding quickly, and gave him a little smile. He stared a moment longer, then gave a short nod of his own, and moved out of the way to let her pass. Molly scuttled around him and dashed up the stairs, trying to hold the towel as tightly around her body as she could.

 

Back in the safety of John's room, Molly let out a big breath, flopping down on the bed. It wasn't even noon, and she already felt ready for the day to be over. This was going to be a difficult enough situation without spending time trying to decipher Sherlock's words. So, with a huff, she dropped the towel, pulled on a pair of knickers, and went dig out a clean bra.

 

There was a knock on the door, which swung open immediately afterwards.

 

“I forgot to mention down there tha-” Sherlock stopped dead at the sight before him, face going blank. Molly shrieked. The sound of her slap echoed around the room. Her blush lasted well into the evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am getting more comments on this than I have ever gotten on anything ever before, and I am LOVING IT. I'm going to be trying to update a little more regularly, but my life is still rather hectic, so I apologize for big clumps of time between chapters. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this one! Please let me know what you think, and thank you for continuing to read. :}


	10. Chapter 10

For the rest of the day, Molly stayed inside her new room, checking emails, sending around apologies to the appointments she'd missed, and the ones she would likely be missing, and definitely not avoiding Sherlock. She tried to read a little, and called her mother to give an update on the situation, but as the minutes ticked by, her grumbling stomach became harder to ignore. Biting her lip, and walking on her tip-toes, Molly went down the stairs and into the kitchen. Peering down the hallway, she saw Sherlock's door was shut tight. She sighed, and then looked around.

 

The kitchen was every bit as ridiculous as one would imagine Sherlock Holmes' kitchen to be. The table in the middle was covered in tubes and chemicals, experiments, and a number of suspicious looking things in big jars. There was a small half-circle table up against the wall, with a plate and a fork on it. Both were crusted in egg yolk. The sink was full of dishes. Molly blinked at everything for a minute, and then shrugged. She hated a dirty kitchen, and she had the time. So the petite woman rolled up her sleeves and got to work, washing all the dishes, scrubbing down counters, pointedly avoiding Sherlock's table of chemical warfare. The cupboards were another minor disaster, with dishes apparently just shoved in at random. One had a number of beakers, cutlery and a vase. Another had what appeared to be a lot of dusty Royal Doulton china, a gravy boat, and a spice rack. With a heavy sigh, Molly hopped up onto the counter and began sorting things out. It took a good hour or so, but she managed to find homes for everything. Cutlery in the drawer, plates and bowls in one cupboard, glasses and mugs in another, special occasion-type things in a third, another devoted to beakers and vases. Molly hopped down with a little smile. It wasn't much, but it always made her feel better to clean, to tidy.

 

But it was past noon, and she still hadn't eaten anything yet. So with a guilty look in the direction of Sherlock's room, she opened the fridge to scout out some food.

 

The fridge was doing its best impression of a war zone. There was a carton of eggs, a lump of butter, and a jug of orange juice, no pulp. Everything else was madness. Tupperware containers, open, on their sides, spilling gently moulding contents onto the shelves. Take-away boxes stacked one on top of another, covered in grease, some of them warping a little with age. Everything looked at though it was dusted with flour.

 

And then, of course, there was the plate of toes.

 

Molly gagged a little, more due to smell than anything else, and shut the door. After a moment's thought, she pulled out the eggs, and went to the stove where a frying pan was already out. She fried herself a couple of eggs, and made some toast. When she was done eating, she filled the sink with hot, soapy water, grabbed a sponge, and, with a deep breath and a prayer, dove back into the fridge.

 

It was as she was tentatively opening containers to sniff at their contents that she became aware of a presence behind her. She stiffened.

 

“You've been... Cleaning,” said Sherlock slowly. Molly swallowed, and then nodded.

 

“Well, I- I just figured it would be nice, you know? To help out.” There was no response. Molly peeked up behind her. Sherlock had his back to her, and was looking around at the sink and the cupboards, his brow furrowed. He looked back down at her, and out of habit, she looked away. Then she pushed herself up onto her feet, took a deep breath, smiled brightly, and turned to face him.

 

“Would you like some lunch? There's- Well, I mean, there _are_ \- Eggs? Toast? Or I could run to a shop, shop for something...” She trailed off. He was frowning at her. “Leaving is not recommended. The false stomach was easy enough to hide under a wedding dress. Under day-to-day clothing, it would be almost instantly recognized as a prosthetic,” he said. It was Molly's turn to frown. “Well, I suppose you could go to a shop, then?” she tried. His frown deepened, and he tilted his head to one side. “I don't do the shopping. That was John's job.” He looked around her into the fridge. “I suppose, in his absence, the task has rather fallen by the wayside.” His eyes slid sideways and met hers. He stared at her for a moment, then straightened, turned, and walked into the sitting room. Molly frowned after him.

 

“So I can't leave the flat?” she called.

 

“No,” Sherlock said.

 

“And you don't shop for groceries?”

 

“Afraid not,” he replied with an exaggerated smile. Molly planted her hands on her hips and looked around the kitchen, frustratedly. Eggs, bread, orange juice, and three boxes of Yorkshire Tea. “Right then,” she muttered, and returned to her room to grab her phone.

 

An hour later, with the fridge almost cleaned (Sherlock had popped in again to announce that she was not, under any circumstances, to touch his toes), there was a knock at the door. Molly heard Mrs Hudson's voice cooing, and straightened.

 

“Molly dear, your mother's here!” Mrs Hooper came into the kitchen with a big laundry basket full of bagged groceries. Molly beamed at the sight and threw her arms around the older woman.

 

“Thank you mum, I'll pay you back,” she promised, though her mother waved away the words. “I definitely understand living with a man who won't do his chores,” she said with a little smile. Molly grinned, and demanded she at least be allowed to cook her mother dinner. Mrs Hudson was invited along as well, and soon the three women were all chatting away as they set up the kitchen.

 

“Well of course, I pop in most mornings to bring him a cup of tea, a few biscuits. I know he's not one to think much about food, he does get all caught up in his mind, bless him,” said Mrs Hudson. “And of course, I do keep telling him that he's not to bring in body parts, organs and the like, but you know how boys can be.” Mrs Hooper chuckled. “I do indeed. Though the problems I had with my boys and organs were of an entirely different sort.” All three women cackled at that.

 

After the groceries were put away, Molly set about making dinner. She went with a beef stew, with dumplings. It took some time, and some manoeuvring around the unfamiliar kitchen, but it turned out nicely. The three women ate and chatted, Molly mostly just listening to a number of marriage horror stories with a grin and some wincing. Sherlock didn't appear until after the women had left, and Molly was washing up in the kitchen. Then, he popped in, looking puzzled. Molly watched as he looked down at the stew pot.

  
“You cooked,” he said. Molly blinked. “I did, yes. Sorry, was I not supposed to?” The detective shrugged and said nothing, just stared down at the stew. Molly went back to cleaning as Sherlock made some tea. Then he sat down, drinking his tea, and watching her.

 

“I didn't imagine you to be so domestic, or are you attempting the role of housewife?” he asked finally. Molly snorted. “I've always liked cooking, it was my way of helping mum when I was little. She had her hands full, three sons and all. I just sort of got good at it,” she said with a shrug. Sherlock nodded, filing away the information. Molly hesitated for a moment, then pulled up a chair next to him.

 

“Sherlock, how long am I going to have to stay here?” she asked. “I mean, is there a plan other than wait for the baddie to try to kill you, whenever that may be?” Sherlock frowned at his mug.

 

“Yes, well, this has been an unplanned turn of events. I have spent the greater part of my day researching the other murders, looking for links, trying to find some sort of connection that may lead us to the killer. Unfortunately, the victims, at this point, appear to be chosen at random,” he said. He didn't sound happy. Molly frowned.

 

“Well... I mean, you said he was choosing victims based on their brides, right? That they were all young, dainty, pregnant, didn't want to get married?” Sherlock nodded. “It could be a woman like that who was pushed into marriage herself, then, couldn't it? Or maybe someone who had a sister, or a daughter who was? Like a revenge thing?” Sherlock looked up at her, a curious expression on his face.

 

“I have been exploring such angles. For a while there was a woman who seemed like a strong suspect, who killed her husband half a year ago. The murder was similar to those in our case. She made her case that she killed in self-defence, and there was sufficient evidence to back her story. Unfortunately, the woman in question was struck by a car two months later, and lost use of her legs. Given the height of the victims and the angle of the wounds, it is highly unlikely that she would have been capable of the murders.” Molly nodded. Sherlock stirred his tea thoughtfully. “I suppose it is possible she may have an accomplice, a hired hand to do her dirty work. It is a bit of a leap, but at present she is the most likely candidate.” Molly smiled a little, and shrugged.

 

“Well, if you need me, I'll be in my room, I have a few emails I need to send, books to read, that sort of thing,” she said brightly, and stood to leave. A hand on her wrist stopped her.

 

“Molly, I wish to apologize for earlier. I shouldn't have burst into your room like that,” Sherlock said, blinking up at her. Molly blushed a little, but nodded. “It's fine, I forgive you and everything, I'm okay,” she blurted. Sherlock nodded. Then he stood, and began ladling stew into a bowl for himself. He took a bite, and chewed thoughtfully. Molly turned to leave, when his voice stopped her once again.

 

“I might also recommend you rethink your choice in garments. While I understand the practicality in owning a multitude of sweaters, the size and shape of most of your clothing succeeds in hiding the fact that you have a most attractive figure,” he said matter-of-factly. Molly froze, her light blush blooming horribly into a mottled red that covered her from head to toe. Sherlock squeezed past through the doorway, pausing to look down at her. She looked up at him, mouth opening and shutting, finding it almost difficult to breathe with him standing so close to her.

 

“By the way, this is very good stew, thank you for making it,” he added in a low voice, sliding the spoon into his mouth, and giving her a little wink before breezing on into the sitting room.

 

Molly didn't breathe again until she was back in her room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I said I would update more regularly, and then took stupidly long getting this chapter out. I am the worst, please forgive me. I haven't had as much time to write given all the job hunting I've been doing, so this chapter was sort of strange to write, very stop-and-start. I hope you liked it! You guys have been wonderful, and I love you all for being so incredibly kind with your comments. Thank you so much for being lovely!


	11. Chapter 11

Molly considered herself a fairly heavy sleeper. Having gone through medical training, she believed in the power of a good, long sleep. She was the early to bed, early to rise sort, and it generally took nothing short of a trumpeting chorus blasting God Save The Queen at the foot of her bed to rouse her before she had got her full eight-to-ten hours.

 

Which is why it came as a shock when she was jolted awake in the middle of the night by sudden loud talking and banging coming from Sherlock's flat.

 

Molly sat up straight, arms flailing around as if to bat away the remnants of her sleep. Her startled face drooped into a frown. She grabbed her phone to check the time.

 

3:28 AM.

 

The petite woman groaned and flopped back onto her bed, squeezing her eyes shut. She could hear Sherlock talking loudly, though she couldn't make out the words. And occasionally, there were just loud bursts of laughter. She tried to block it out, but there were banging noises, loud footsteps, she could even hear the tinkling of glasses. She frowned into her pillow as she noted that she could hear a second voice, a male voice, rather loud and reedy. With a soft grumble, she pushed herself up out of the bed and went to investigate. However, she didn't manage to get far.

 

The door was locked.

 

Molly frowned, jiggling the handle madly. It wouldn't turn, despite her best efforts. Frustrated, she began banging on the door. To her indignation, she heard Sherlock's voice raising in volume, laughing loudly, drowning out the sound. Her fingers clenched, and she could feel her lip twitch, the way it tended to when she was very annoyed. A quiet, sensible voice in the back of her head whispered that he likely had good reason to lock her in, that the guest was potentially a dangerous man, and she was better off staying put.

 

She wasn't in the mood to listen.

 

Face pink with anger, hair mussed from sleep, and wearing a long Paddington Bear sleep shirt with a pair of plaid boxers, Molly whirled around, and stomped as loudly as she could back across the room, jumping the last couple of steps, and threw herself onto the bed, which groaned and squeaked and banged as she landed. She then grabbed her cell phone, dialled in Sherlock's number, and listened to it ring. He didn't answer. Grumbling under her breath, she looked at the time. 3:33 AM. She pursed her lips, and shot off a quick text.

 

_Sherlock Holmes, you come up here straight away, I think we need another chat about boundaries!_

 

Time crawled by for Molly. She lay there, buried under her blankets, staring at the wall as the loud talking continued. She still couldn't understand any words, but she could understand the tone. Sherlock had locked herself in her room, invited over a guest, and gotten drunk. Molly was seething. Every now and again she would check her phone. No reply to her text. And it was 3:48 AM. 4:06 AM. 4:32 AM. At some point, Molly managed to nod off again, teeth still gritted, brow still furrowed.

 

When Molly woke up, it was to a rumble of thunder outside her window. Her eyes slitted open, feeling crusty and heavy. She had been dreaming, some sort of a sweet, warm dream. There had been flowers and honey, and a warm voice murmuring in her ear. She sighed. The dream faded, but the warm feelings remained. Molly stretched and yawned, rolling onto her back.

 

Her hand smacked against warm flesh.

 

She was off the bed and screaming in moments. A shout came from her bed, and a figure rolled out of it, landing with a loud thud around the other side of the bed. Molly heard a groan. A hand clapped to her mouth and she stood still for a moment, trying to control her heartbeat. Then she climbed up onto the bed, crawled to the opposite site, and looked down. Sherlock was laying face down, his limbs splayed, with half the blankets covering him. In fact, looking closely, it seemed the blankets were all he had covering him. Molly bit her lip, then reached down and poked his shoulder.

 

“Sh-Sherlock? Are you okay?” she asked timidly. The detective let out a big sigh, lifted his head, and narrowed his eyes at her. Neither of them said anything for a moment. Molly was trying to work out the best way to apologize, feeling mortified. But already she was remembering the events from last night. The loud talking and banging and clinking, the door locked shut, the angry text, and now, him naked in her bed? Molly frowned at him, and pulled herself up to a kneeling position.

 

“Sherlock Holmes, I demand an explanation!” she exclaimed squeakily. There was another heavy sigh from the ground, and then the sound of fabric sliding against skin as Sherlock pulled himself to his feet. He scowled down at her, and she pointedly stared at the wall, rather than his tall, naked self.

 

“What, precisely, would you like me to explain?” he grumbled, rubbing his head and yawning. “I expect you are fully aware of the effects of gravity, surely you've learned _that_ much.” Molly glared at him, and stood up on the bed. “Sherlock, you woke me up at 3 AM, you made loud noises for over an hour, you locked me in my bedroom, you ignored my call, and now you're in my bed with me without any clothes on,” she said, trying to sound fierce. “I'd like you to explain what all that was, please, now. And I want an apology,” she added, crossing her arms and staring at a point just above his head. The detective didn't respond for a long moment, but Molly refused to look down at him. Rather than saying anything, Sherlock reached up and grabbed Molly's hips. The petite woman looked down, startled, and opened her mouth to question him, but she had no opportunity to speak before he was lifting her off the bed, spinning her around in the air, and setting her down in front of him. Molly stared up at him, frozen, her mouth still open.

 

“I had been thinking about our chat yesterday. I mentioned that Mariah Jenkins would have had a hard time committing murder given her disability, unless she had an accomplice. I went over the facts in my mind, and something occurred to me. In each case, the brides spoke of their men speaking to a reporter, a man who was interested in printing little pieces about the wedding in the papers. The men were taken out, plied with copious amounts of alcohol, and convinced to share intimate details about their marriages. This did not strike me as unusual, given that each wedding was indeed covered in the news, to some degree. However, going over the articles pertaining to the weddings last night, I noted that the articles were all written by different people, none of whom matched the description of our mysterious reporter. It was an easy enough leap to make, that a man, possibly a reporter, though more likely not, had been contacting the recently married young men of the city, sitting down to drunken interviews, and coming to conclusions on which husbands were forcing their brides down the aisles. Once such a discovery had been made, the information would be sent to the killer, who would go about ending the marriages in as bloody means as possible. Once this became clear to me, I ventured out, and encountered numerous reporters. It was a matter of minutes before a man approached me with a camera and a notepad, offering me a drink in exchange for my story. We sat in a pub for some time, drinking and chatting, before I made the choice to bring him back here, in order to properly observe him, his tactics, and to work on uncovering his motive. However, given the alcohol we had both of us imbibed, it occurred to me that we might wake you, and that, on waking, you might come to investigate. If you had come downstairs, and the reporter had seen you, very clearly not pregnant, it would have ruined our plans. I considered waking you to discreetly explain the situation, but it seemed rude to invade your space like that, so I refrained, and went with the only other alternative, making sure you would not leave the room. As for being nude in your bed, I received your text shortly after 5 AM, after showing our guest the door. I came at once to see you, but by that point you were already asleep. I admit, in my inebriated state, it seemed most logical to stay in the room until you awakened, so to avoid upsetting you further. I am nude, because that is how I sleep.”

 

Molly blinked at him. He was staring at her with a great deal of intensity, and his hands were still clutching her hips. She bit her lip, and blushed as his eyes darted to stare at her mouth. She cleared her throat.

 

“So was it him, did you get lucky? I mean- Sorry, not did you get lucky, like _did you get lucky_ , but I mean, was it- Did you-” she stopped, flustered and rambling. He was still just staring at her, it was most disconcerting. After a while, he spoke.

 

“We will discuss the case at a later time. It may have escaped your attention in all the excitement, but it is only 7:30 AM, and you have only had approximate two and a half hours of sleep, not nearly enough for you to run on. I have received even less, and I admit that I am still intoxicated, to a degree. I suggest we both sleep a while longer, and then discuss the plan when we are both better rested,” he said. Molly nodded. There was silence between them. It was a tense, charged silence. He was still holding her, and she was standing far too close to his naked body, and yet, at the same time, there was far too much room between them. After a long moment, Sherlock's fingers relaxed. Molly stepped away from him, and crawled back into bed. She rolled onto her side in order to resist the urge to watch him leave, so she had no warning when he suddenly slid into bed with her, throwing a lazy arm around her waist. Her entire body tensed, and she made a startled squeaking noise.

 

“Sherlock?”

 

“Mmm?”

 

“Don't you think you'd better, y'know, sleep in your own bed?”

 

Silence.

 

“Um, Sherlock?”

 

“Yes, right. My apologies.” The bed shifted, and the arm was removed from her waist. Molly stared at the wall with wide eyes, listening to his footsteps as he left the room. He left the door open, and went down the stairs. Halfway down, there was a creaking noise as the door to the flat swung open.

 

“Hoo hoo, Molly? I've brought some te-”

 

“Ah, Mrs Hudson. Good morning.”

 

There was the sound of a crashing tea tray as Mrs Hudson screamed. Molly gave a mad little giggle, slapping a hand over her mouth, some of the tension leaving her body. She fell asleep surprisingly easily after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You. Guys. Are. The. BEST. Seriously. Every time I write a chapter, I end up checking my email about fifty times because it makes me so happy to hear from all of you, thank you for being lovely! Here we have another chapter, I hope you enjoy it, it was just a lot of fun to write.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	12. Chapter 12

The next day, Molly saw little of Sherlock. He paused in the kitchen as she was making breakfast long enough to apologize for his behaviour the previous night. She had blushed and mumbled a response, and he had left shortly after. Molly had spent the rest of the morning puttering around the flat. She brewed a pot of tea and drank the entire thing while taking a long bath, the cheery yellow curtain making her feel more at home. She spent a long while in the kitchen, baking, a habit she had taken up during medical school. She was hardly the best in the world, but the sound of the rain through the open window, and the smell of biscuits and scones made her feel positively buttery inside. She set up a plate of baked goods, and wandered down to Mrs Hudson's flat, and the two women chatted for a good couple of hours. With all that done, Molly returned to the flat, and paced for a while. It was only three in the afternoon. She sighed and grumbled, wondering what Sherlock was up to, and wondering how likely it was that she'd be able to leave the flat unnoticed. Not very, to hear her detective tell it. So she watched a few television shows (The Vicar of Dibley, As Time Goes By, Mulberry, the telly equivalent of comfort food), ate a spot of dinner, and curled up on the couch with a book.

 

Four hours later, she put the book down, rubbing at her eyes. 8:30PM. The day wasn't over yet, and Sherlock still wasn't back. She felt a pang of worry, and frowned, debating whether or not she ought to call him, check up on him. She pictured his reaction to her doing so. Then she picked up a different book. A couple hours later, Molly looked at the clock, sighed, and headed up to bed.

 

The day after that was a much different affair.

 

Molly woke up to the sound of knocking at her bedroom door. The sort of knocking that just went on and on, keeping a steady beat. She sat up and just stared at it for a moment, face scrunched up in sleepy confusion. Then she looked at her phone.

 

6:29AM. And she had three missed texts, from three different unrecognised numbers. The first, at 6AM;

 

I BELIEVE I HAVE MADE A BREAK-THROUGH. A PLAN MUST BE DISCUSSED, COME DOWN IMMEDIATELY. -SH

 

The second, at 6:18AM;

 

MOLLY, YOUR PRESENCE IS REQUIRED IN THE LIVING ROOM. -SH

 

And the third, at 6:24AM;

 

IF YOU DO NOT COME DOWN, I WILL BE FORCED TO DISTURB YOUR PRECIOUS, IMPORTANT 'BOUNDARIES'. -SH

 

Molly blinked at the screen, and then looked back at the door. Knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock, knock... She cleared her throat. “Yes?” she called timidly. The door immediately swung open.

 

“Hello Molly, are you awake? Splendid,” Sherlock said, stomping into the room. He went directly to the dresser. “I do believe I have made a break-through in the case, something which requires immediate discussion, and a great deal of thought.” He pulled out her red tank top, a white cardigan, and, after a moment of rifling, a pair of olive green shorts which she hardly ever wore. They were all tossed at her head. “Unfortunately, while the new information may well be helpful, it is likely that it means we have been taking our ruse in the wrong direction, a problem which should be remedied as soon as possible. Get dressed, come down quickly, I've made tea.” With that, he gave a little nod, spun on his heel, and left the room, slamming the door behind him. Molly watched him go, still staring incredulously. After a moment of thought, she got up, ran a brush through her hair, quickly braiding it. Then she pulled on the clothing he had thrown at her, though, after some hesitation, she pulled on a pair of long jeans instead. Molly went downstairs. Sherlock popped out of the kitchen when he heard her, and frowned a little at her legs before thrusting a big mug into her hands. Tea, with a splash of milk and two sugars. Just the way she liked it.

 

“I spent the majority of yesterday following suspects, watching their movements, studying their mannerisms, and I came to a number of conclusions. Firstly, that the killer is almost certainly not one person. It is becoming clear to me that there are a number of people working together, finding victims, monitoring them, and waiting for the right moment to strike. Secondly, it is likely our priest is not all he claims to be. Thirdl-” Molly shook her head wildly, frowning.

 

“Sherlock, please. I've only just gotten up, can you please just- Wait a minute?” she asked. The detective stared down at her, eyes narrowed. Then he sniffed, walked over to his chair, sat down, and snapped open a newspaper. One of his legs was bouncing. Molly sighed, and went into the kitchen. She heated up a plate of scones, and pulled the little jars of jam and clotted cream out of a cupboard. Then she grabbed a knife and a couple napkins, and returned to the sitting room. She set the plate down on a little side table, and sat in the chair across from Sherlock. Grabbing a scone and slicing it in half, she looked over at the detective. He was peering over the top of the paper at her, but looked away pointedly as their eyes met. She frowned.

 

“Okay, so there are more than one killer?” she prompted, spreading some jam onto the scone, adding a dollop of cream and offering it to Sherlock. He eyed the offering for a long moment, before taking it, and passing her the paper.

 

“Third page,” he said, and took a large bite of scone. He chewed slowly and thoughtfully, staring at Molly as she flipped to page three. There was a large, grainy picture of the pair of them in their wedding kit staring up at her, Molly grinning tensely, and Sherlock gazing into the distance, looking bored. The headline read:

 

“ **I HAVEN'T SEEN MY WIFE SINCE OUR WEDDING NIGHT!”; OUR FAVOURITE DETECTIVE SPILLS ABOUT HIS NOT-SO BLISSFUL MARRIED LIFE**

 

Molly blinked, and frowned, taking a bite out of her own jam-and-cream scone. She read on, a strongly worded article about how distant they supposedly were, including a comparison to Kim Kardashian and Kris Humphries, and a quote from a concerned friend stating that the two of them were 'even sleeping in separate bedrooms!' Swallowing a mouthful of tea, she looked up at Sherlock.

 

“This is by that reporter, the one from the other night?” she asked. He shook his head, staring at his scone. He looked up at her, mouth open to speak, but stopped. He looked at her for a long moment, eyes darting to her mouth, and then back to her eyes, before he shook himself and stood, starting to pace.

 

“This article was written by a man named Thomas Browning. He pieced it together from various little interviews I have given since the wedding, and follows the trend reporters have created in response to our wedding, one of questioning the current state of our marriage. However, this was not the case during my interview with the journalist from the night before last. Throughout our interview, the journalist, a mister Jeremy Moore, kept quite determinedly bringing our chat back to the state of our relationship before the wedding, asking how long ago we met, when we began seeing each other, wondering how over we had sex in the early days of our courtship. It is possible that he was attempting a more unique take on our story, but I consider it unlikely, as he claimed to come from a cheap current affairs magazine, one which already posted about us. A magazine interested in staying fresh, current. I doubt they would write about us again so shortly after their previous article. As I said, I have come to the conclusion that our killer is actually a team, a group brought together in their desire to kill, possibly for vengeance, more likely for their sense of justice. Following this idea, I trailed Jeremy Moore for the greater part of yesterday morning and afternoon.” He paused and looked up at her, once again focusing on her mouth, before looking away and continuing.

 

“Throughout the day, I saw him attempt to contact both our sets of parents, your boss, Lestrade and John. He visited many of the coffee shops and restaurants I have frequented in the past, and the veterinary office you visit with Toby. He took pages and pages of notes, doing very thorough research. Most surprisingly, however, he also visited a church. He stopped in five times between 10AM and 6PM. I did not risk following him in, but each time he reappeared, he was scribbling down more notes. It is clear he was looking for information on us, but I do not attend church, and your family church is much further East, the commute to this particular church would make no sense with your schedule. This leads me to believe that, rather than visit the church to collect information, he was visiting to deliver it. At this point in the week, and given the times he went, I would assume he was dropping in on a priest. So a man of the cloth is likely in on the crime. But to what degree, that is the question! It seems clear that Moore is the man who offers up potential victims, researches them, learns all he can about their lives. To deliver the information to a priest suggests that the priest is the one who decides whether or not a man is guilty by their code, however, I don't believe the murders have been committed by a holy man. There have been religious murderers, yes, but a priest is close to God. He would never condone so messy a death. So, then, there is the informant, the judge, and the killer. A trio, at the very least.”

 

Sherlock finished his rant, and turned to face Molly, looking triumphant. She nodded by way of response, chewing on a mouthful of cream-drenched scone. She swallowed.

 

“So, then, what do you think we ought to do?” she asked, licking jam off of her fingers. Sherlock looked away, pacing again.

 

“Glad you asked. It seems clear to me that in our attempt to seem distant, to make it appear as though our marriage was only to appease our families and had little to do with romantic affection, we may have succeeded in making our relationship seem fake in the eyes of our observer. After all, the murdered men seem to have been close to their brides. Given the lack of evidence that we dated before the wedding, we will need to make our romantic connection known. We have some time yet, as Moore seems to be busy enough researching that he may not have noticed our chilly behaviour, however, if we are to have any luck in keeping the attention of the journalist and the priest long enough to discover the killer, we must do a better job at playing married couple.”

 

Molly blinked at him and frowned a little, nodding slowly. “I suppose that makes sense, but how can we do that if I'm not allowed to go out?” she asked. Sherlock nodded at her question and sat in front of her once again. “This morning I reached out to a man I have worked with in the past, who specializes in prosthetics for stage and film productions. I gave him your measurements and a brief background on the case. He is working on a more believable stomach. In the meantime, I have a number of cameras hidden in the flat. We will act as though we are husband and wife, and this evening I will look through the footage, pick images which look romantic and feature shots of you from the back, and leak them anonymously to a handful of newspapers.” Molly blinked at him, and stood to take the plate and her mug into the kitchen.

 

“We have to act married, then? Won't that be difficult, with you working on the case and all?” she asked. She looked back to see him following her with the knife and napkins. “Not an issue, all we need are a few pictures of us doing the sort of things a newly married couple might do. For example...” He trailed off. Molly had reached the sink and set down the dishes. "For example...?" she repeated, and turned to look at him, her brow furrowed.

 

What Molly had underestimated was the distance between them. She turned, and found herself suddenly very close to Sherlock, with him moving closer. Wide-eyed, she backed up until she bumped against a counter. Sherlock stopped inches away from her, his hands coming forward to grab the counter on either side of her hips. He stared at her for a moment, then reached up to tilt her face toward his. Molly opened her mouth, though she wasn't sure there was anything she could say, as her brain appeared to have stopped working. However, it turned out that words were not really required. The detective bent down and slowly closed his mouth around her bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth. Molly's breath caught in her chest, and she brought her hands up instinctively to rest on his arms. She felt his tongue slide slowly against her lip, which sent her head reeling, and made her thigh muscles clench. Sherlock pulled away slowly, and looked down at her, a dark look in his eyes. Molly felt herself blush as his thumb traced the spot he had sucked, making her tingle. The corner of his mouth tilted up in a sly little smile.

 

“You had a spot of jam. Don't worry, I got it,” he said after a moment, then pressed his lips briefly against hers, and walked away. Molly fell back against the counter, legs feeling almost as wibbly as her head. She suddenly felt quite worried indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The case develops! I am having the most fun trying to come up with the case, does anyone have any theories on it yet? Tell you what, the first one to guess what's happening, I will write you a one-shot of your choice, any fandom, pairing and situation you like. In the meantime, some fluff is happening! I hope you like it, thanks for reading!
> 
> (On a separate note, someone has finally hired me! I am officially employed again! Thank you to those who wished me luck in the job hunt, I guess it worked. :} )


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, first of all, I dedicate this chapter to hiddlesbatch, who said I ought to write a Sherlock POV version of the chapter when he saw Molly naked. I took the idea and ran with it.
> 
> Secondly, I'd like to apologize, because I am not fully satisfied with this, but the idea was gnawing at me a bit, and I wanted to get it down before I post the next chapter tomorrow. So I hope it's okay, and hiddlesbatch, I hope you like it!

Sherlock was sitting cross-legged on the floor of his bedroom. His fingers were steepled, his brow furrowed. He was deep in thought, and certainly NOT sulking, no matter how John insisted. The detective glared at his phone as it buzzed on the floor in front of him, squinting at the text.

 

LOOK, IT MAY BE AWKWARD TO U, BUT THINK HOW SHE FEELS. QUIT BROODING, GO APOLOGIZE. K?

 

Sherlock snorted, and jumped to his feet. He started to pace, still scowling at nothing in particular. Without meaning to, he thought back to the incident that had occurred almost two hours ago.

 

_He bounded up the stairs, having quite forgotten to notify Molly that more of her things ought to be arriving a little later in the week. He rapped his knuckles sharply against the door, and let himself in._

 

“ _I forgot to mention down there tha-” Sherlock felt the words shrivel and die on his tongue. His entire body went still as he took in the sight before him._

 

_Molly stood in the pale morning light, which touched her skin and made it shine. Her wet hair clung to gently rounded shoulders, stuck to the soft, round breasts. Larger than her wardrobe gave evidence to. A slender, curving waist, with the slightest of paunches. Blue cotton knickers clung to hips that were wider than he had anticipated, and long, lightly muscled legs stemmed down to larger-than-average feet. The bra in her hand was white cotton, with a pattern of daisies. Sherlock's mouth went dry. As he gazed at her, wondering if the skin was as soft and cool as it looked, his fingers clenched, and he felt a strange warmth in his abdomen. Before he could begin deciphering the sensation, Sherlock became aware that Molly was shouting. He saw the slap before he felt the sting, and then she was pushing him back, while trying to cover herself. Snapping to his senses, the detective spun inelegantly and scurried out of the room, almost getting caught in the door as it slammed shut behind him._

 

Sherlock blinked. The image of Molly, nude in the sunlight, was strong in his mind, and again he felt that heat in his belly. He frowned, bringing a hand to his core. Symptoms; heat and tension in the abdomen, dry mouth, increase heart rate, a slight pulsing in the ears. Potential causes; muscle strain, an abscess, aortic aneurysm in the abdomen, poisoning, arousal. He frowned. Muscle strain seemed the most plausible, given that he had received a clean bill of health at his last physical, and that there were none, aside from Molly, who'd had recent access to his food. She seemed more the type to asphyxiate a victim with helium, or, in a pinch, to target major arteries, so it seemed unlikely. Then, there was arousal.

 

Sherlock aimed a kick at his bed. If he was to be honest with himself, he knew that what he had experienced was sexual attraction. While preferable to an aortic aneurysm, it was still irritating. He was a man of logic, a sociopath! Removed from emotion, able to cooly calculate and deduce his way through life. Having a best friend was bad enough, but to be sexually attracted to Molly? At least in the case of Janine, he had had additional, mental stimuli, and loud music to excite himself. But in the case of Molly, there had just been-  _Molly_ . Sherlock grumbled to himself, shaking his head, and slapping himself a little. Sexual attraction was an easy enough thing to ignore. With a determined little nod, he sat on the floor, crossed his legs, steepled his fingers, and thought about the case at hand.

 

Some time later, Sherlock was deep in thought, going over the details of the case, focusing on suspects, potential motives. As he was ruling out the altar boys, a small noise called him back to present. He turned his head, listening. Someone banging around in the kitchen. Running water. Sherlock frowned, looking at the clock. A little past noon. Molly had emerged from her room. Sherlock stood quickly, popping out of his room, intending to go apologize for bursting in on her. He reached the kitchen, and then stopped, looking around.

 

The dishes that had been sitting in the sink were gone. The cupboards and drawers were all open, revealing cleaned dishes that had been sorted away. There was some water on the counter, and the air smelled of artificial lemons. The fridge door was fully open, and Molly was kneeling in front of it, her long hair in a braid down her back, wearing a pair of ancient rubbing gloves, and staring suspiciously at a container which Sherlock was fairly certain had been home to some chicken fried rice. As he approached her, Molly stiffened, but kept her back to him. Sherlock looked at her, then the fridge, then around at the kitchen.

 

“You've been... Cleaning,” he said after a long moment, aware of how puzzled he sounded.

 

“Well, I- I just figured it would be nice, you know? To help out,” Molly replied. Sherlock was staring into one of the cupboards, where he seemed to have a number of baking dishes, with a frown, trying to remember why he had baking dishes. He looked back at Molly, catching her eye. She looked away, and stood quickly, giving him a bright smile.

 

“Would you like some lunch? There's- Well, I mean, there __are__ \- Eggs? Toast? Or I could run to a shop, shop for something...” Sherlock frowned deeply. Go to a shop? No. No, she couldn't leave, of course she couldn't leave. Why couldn't she leave? There was a reason, surely. She was staring at him, looking confused. Sherlock cleared his throat.

 

“Leaving is not recommended. The false stomach was easy enough to hide under a wedding dress. Under day-to-day clothing, it would be almost instantly recognized as a prosthetic,” he said. Yes, a good reason, very logical. But now Molly was frowning. “Well, I suppose you could go to a shop, then?” she asked. Sherlock scowled a bit at that, the thought of venturing out to the land of the dimwitted.

 

“I don't do the shopping. That was John's job,” he replied, and then leaned around her to peer into the fridge. A wasteland of take away boxes, with a carton of eggs, butter, some juice, and of course his toes. “I suppose, in his absence, the task has rather fallen by the wayside,” he murmured, more to himself than anything else. He looked sideways at Molly. In checking out the refrigerator, he had inadvertently brought himself quite close to her. From this distance, he could count each of her eyelashes, see a tiny scar just below her hairline, and notice a number of strands escaping from her braids. Somehow, it managed to look endearing, rather than messy. When his eyes flickered down to her mouth, he stood up quickly, and sped off into the sitting room.

 

“So I can't leave the flat?” Molly called.

  
  


“No,” Sherlock replied.

  
  


“And you don't shop for groceries?”

  
  


“Afraid not,” he replied, throwing a big grin over his shoulder, before throwing himself onto the sofa with a scowl. He heard Molly sigh, and a moment later she walked past, grumbling a little under her breath, shutting herself in her room. Sherlock watched her pass by, and strained to hear the phone conversation carrying on above him. When he was unable to make it out, he scowled, and stomped back to his room. When he heard Molly head back to the kitchen he stuck his head around the door and announced that the plate of toes were an important part of a case, and she was not to touch them. With that, he shut himself away for good.

  
  


Some time later, he became aware of someone in the flat with Molly. Mrs Hooper, most likely. There was a sound of rustling bags and banging cupboard doors, signalling food. As well, there was a good deal of giggling and cooing, a good indication that Mrs Hudson had joined them. Sherlock paced around his room, occasionally pressing his ear against the door to listen in.

  
  


An hour passed. Sherlock was getting restless. Every now and then, the ladies in the sitting room would give a great hoot of laughter, followed by some shushing. They were _gossiping_. Most likely about him. Intolerable.

  
  


Another hour. A smell was wafting in from under the door. A meaty, rich sort of smell. Cooking. Beef. Sherlock's stomach grumbled. It had been a while since the tea and biscuits of the morning. As he considered going in search of sustenance, the trio cackled again. Sherlock scowled, and continued pacing.

  
  


At long last, there was the sound of cheery ta's and many-happy-returns, and the door shutting. Alone with his- with  _Molly_ , and the food, finally. Sherlock strode into the kitchen, following his nose. Molly was washing up dishes. She looked rather... Cozy, seemed as good a word as any. There was a great big pot on the stove. Sherlock approached it and stared down at what appeared to be a big stew, with dumplings. He looked up to see Molly looking at him, and pointed at the pot.

  
  


“You cooked,” he said simply. Molly stared at him strangely, and then gave a little nod. “I did, yes. Sorry, was I not supposed to?” Sherlock shrugged at that, heading toward the kettle, pointedly nonchalant. He avoided the stew on the stove, and instead readied himself a cup of tea, taking his time to steep and sugar.

  
  


“I didn't imagine you to be so domestic, or are you attempting the role of housewife?” he asked finally, sitting at the table with his mug. Molly made an amused noise at that, and Sherlock raised his brows to stare at her. 

  
  


“I've always liked cooking, it was my way of helping mum when I was little. She had her hands full, three sons and all. I just sort of got good at it,” she said, shrugging. The image came clear to Sherlock. Mrs Hooper in the kitchen on a warm day, watching her sons fondly through the window. In Sherlock's mind, they were dressed as pirates and ship captains. A small girl with braids skipping into the kitchen, pulling on a small apron with a giggle to blow soap bubbles and stir a pot of soup. It seemed an annoying cliché to the detective, though he supposed it was a perfectly fine upbringing.

  
  


Much to his surprise, Sherlock found that for the next little while, they discussed the case. Molly sat by him, listening to what he had discovered, and what yet needed solving, occasionally interjecting with intelligent, and somewhat unexpected little possibilities. Ones he had not considered. He had grown used to John, who would let him ramble on until eventually the solution became clear to him. Before that, in his youth, Mycroft, who would sit and smirk, listening to his baby brother puzzle and consider, often interrupting to exclaim that he couldn't believe Sherlock had not yet gotten it right, and what a simpleton his parents had landed him with, all the while withholding information and acting superior. In contrast was Molly, approaching the same problem with a different set of experiences, a different form of intellect, offering up perspectives and possibilities. Sherlock found himself studying her as she thought, the way her brow would crease, her shoulders would hunch a little. Her mouth curved down when she was deep in thought, and she would bite her lip when she was feeling uncertain. It was rather entrancing.

  
  


But after a while, Molly announced that she was to retire to her room. It was at that point that Sherlock remembered what he had emerged for in the first place, and he caught her wrist as she passed him. “Molly, I wish to apologize for earlier. I shouldn't have burst into your room like that,” he said, staring up into her eyes. He watched, amused, as her face reddened. She began stammering, as she was wont to do.

  
  


“It's fine, I forgive you and everything, I'm okay,” she said, flailing her free arm around. Sherlock nodded, standing up, and turned to the stove, in part to get some food, and in part to hide his tiny smile. He was aware of Molly, hovering by the table, as if unsure whether or not she ought to leave. He ate a bite of stew as he turned to look at her, enjoying the rich flavour, as well as the curious look that came over Molly's face as she watched him chew. When at last she turned to go, Sherlock, out of curiosity really, spoke up again.

  
  


“I might also recommend you rethink your choice in garments. While I understand the practicality in owning a multitude of sweaters, the size and shape of most of your clothing succeeds in hiding the fact that you have a most attractive figure,” he said. The reaction was fascinating and rather enjoyable to watch. Molly had frozen in the doorway, her shoulders tensing up to her ears. The bit of her face he could see was very red indeed. She seemed to be employing the “don't move and the predator won't see you” technique, which Sherlock found rather amusing. He was walking toward her before he fully realized it. He squeezed into the doorway beside her, and looked down at the petite woman. She was turning a little to meet his gaze. Her entire body seemed to be blushing, a body that was closer to him than he had anticipated. Her hips were ever so close to his, her lips looking surprisingly soft as she gaped at him. Sherlock felt a full rush of emotions that nearly sent him rocking back onto his heels. 

  
  


“By the way, this is very good stew, thank you for making it,” he said after a long moment, deliberately pitching his voice low, and sliding another spoonful of stew into his mouth. He watched her eyes as they followed the spoon, focusing on his lips as they closed around the metal. He could practically feel the heat coming off her. Her eyes darted up to meet his, and, impulsively, Sherlock winked at her. The petite woman made a quiet noise in the back of her throat, and Sherlock found himself pushing past her, making a beeline for the sofa, as he felt his fingers clench once more. He chuckled as Molly scuttled up the stairs at full tilt, shutting herself in her room. 

  
  


And he'd thought marriage would be boring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there you have it! If you liked it, please, feel free to comment and let me know. If you didn't like it, please feel free to comment and let me know! I'll be posting a new chapter tomorrow afternoon (my time, Canada time), so I hope this is at least a sufficient tide-over chapter.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


	14. Chapter 14

The rest of the day became a sort of strange game of hide-and-go-seek. Molly understood it was necessary for the case, acting like husband and wife, but she didn't feel mentally or emotionally prepared for receiving the husband treatment. She felt she'd been having a hard enough time already!

 

Sherlock seemed to sense this. So he started off small. He began smiling at her more, which came as a surprise in and of itself. He'd walk past Molly in the sitting room, and come over to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. He'd compliment little things about her, the colour of her shirt, the soothing quality of her voice. At one point he even complimented the length of her eyelashes, saying they added a certain cow-like quality to her face. It had taken Molly a moment to understand the compliment in that one. And Molly even joined in! Occasionally reaching out to put her hand on his arm, even trying to flutter her eyelashes at him. Sherlock had asked if she was in pain, which had put an end to that. But she did what she could, and felt that, yes, to a passing stranger, they would look rather cozy!

 

They continued in that way for the first hour or two. Then, at approximately 11:45AM, Sherlock came up to her while she was washing the breakfast dishes. Molly was humming, trying to remember the words to a song her mum had used to sing to her when she was young. Frowning at a plate with a bit of egg that refused to scrape off, humming to herself while trying to remember if the line was 'Once we watched a lazy world flow by,' or if it was 'watched a lazy world _go_ by,' she wasn't really paying attention to what was happening around her. So she didn't hear Sherlock coming up behind her. She was just suddenly aware of a presence at her back, by which time it was too late to prepare herself. Hands slid against her hips as Sherlock wrapped his arms around her, gently pulling her back against him. Their bodies flush, he nuzzled against her neck, pressing his mouth against her throat. 

 

“Were you a fan of Robin Hood growing up?” he asked in a low voice by her ear. Molly, who had frozen the moment she'd felt him behind her, cleared her throat to try to bring some moisture into her dry mouth. Failing that, she just nodded, eyes wide as she stared at the lovely green back-splash trying to keep her wits about her. Sherlock chuckled, and the sound vibrated against her collarbone, almost knocking her knees out from under her. “Many claim that it is one of Disney's more underrated films,” he said, and kissed a line from her earlobe down to her shoulder, sending tingles down Molly's spine. When she didn't reply, Sherlock took a half step back, kissed the top of her head, and left. Molly stood very still for a goodly long while after that.

 

Things only got worse from there.

 

A little while later, Molly was in the sitting room, reading in John's old chair. She heard Sherlock enter the room, and peeked up at him. He was holding two steaming mugs of tea. She thanked him as passed her one of them. Then she went back to reading, still feeling a wee bit hot under the collar from earlier. The detective, meanwhile, set down his mug, and grabbed a book as well, putting it on the arm of his chair. Then he approached Molly. She looked up as he bent down to her level, reaching for her. She opened her mouth to ask what he was doing, but her words were quickly replaced by a little squeal as he scooped her up out of the chair, carried her over to his own chair and sat down, setting her on his lap. He then wrapped his arms around her, grabbed his book, and began reading. Molly opened her mouth to demand he let go, but he looked up and caught her eye.

 

“I have been spending some time researching couples, and displays of affection. For the most part, romantic bonding and/or nurturing seems to take form in physical contact, or, in the art of the 'snuggle'. I assure you this is all strictly professional. Now, you must kiss me on the cheek, preferably while smiling, shift your weight until you are comfortable, and then resume reading.” His little speech done, he tilted his face, making his cheek available to her. Molly blinked, considered arguing, then sighed and tried to kiss his cheek while smiling. She wiggled her hips around to get comfortable, blushing at the thought of his nether regions so close to hers. Sherlock stiffened a little, and remained tense until she was done. Then the pair of them took up their books, and began reading, Molly trying her best not to dwell on the way his hand was lazily sliding up and down her hip, and squeaking any time he shifted his weight underneath her.

 

A little while later, just as Molly was starting to get used to Sherlock's lap, he looked at his phone, and gave a curt little nod. “Up,” he commanded, opening his arms to let Molly stand. She did so with a frown, a frown which deepened as Sherlock stood, took her hand, and practically dragged her into the kitchen. “What now?” Molly squeaked as the detective brought her over to the little table, sat her down, and went to rummage through the fridge. He came to the table, a bowl of fruit in his hand. He sat across from her, and plucked a strawberry from the top of the bowl.

 

“Through my research, I discovered a number of romantic clichés, and I believe we should endeavour to go through as many as possible. We have had the hug-from-behind-while-completing-menial-tasks, the reading-while-sitting-on-each-other, now I am going to feed you fruit while you gaze into my eyes,” he said, and scooted his chair closer, holding the strawberry an inch from Molly's nose. Molly frowned. “Sherl-” she began, before a strawberry was pushed into her mouth. As she tried to look down at it, Sherlock ducked his head down, doing his best to maintain eye contact. When Molly sighed exasperatedly, Sherlock sat back and folded his arms, giving her a look.

 

“Molly, this will take all of two point eight minutes, if you will please cooperate,” he said, frowning. Molly glared at him, but, after a moment, bit down on the strawberry, chewed, swallowed, and setting the stem on the table. “Okay, but no cherries, please.” Sherlock scooted closer again, and picked an orange slice from the bowl. He held it in front of Molly's mouth, and she, feeling decidedly silly, plucked it from his fingertips with her teeth. The detective nodded, and pulled out a grape, feeding it to her. This continued for a little while, him feeding her small pieces of fruit. But then, he pulled out a large slice of pineapple, easily too large for Molly's mouth. He bit into one end, then leaned forward, offering the other end to her. Molly frowned, annoyed that she was already blushing, and cautiously bit the other end, attempting to pull it away. Sherlock, rather than releasing, began chewing, biting his way closer to her, until suddenly his lips were on her, covered in sweet, sticky pineapple juice, and he was kneeling in between her knees. Molly gasped as the fruit quickly disappeared, and Sherlock's hand came up to thread into her hair, holding her head steady as he kissed her deeply, sliding his mouth against hers, and slipping his tongue between her lips to taste her. Molly groaned softly against his mouth, her hands coming up to grab at his shoulders and back, pressing up against him. She nipped at his lower lip, and he made that low growling sound once again, his hands coming to clench at her hips and pull her closer against him. Just as Molly was on the verge of tearing her clothes off, Sherlock pulled back. His eyes met her, dark and strange, and his mouth was pink, still wet with pineapple juice. For a moment he stared at her as though he was considering her, analysing her. Then, abruptly, he stood, turned on his heel, and left in the direction of his bedroom. Molly stayed where she was for a long moment, eyes still half closed, waiting for the blood to stop rushing through her. Her entire body felt tense, pulsating with want. For a long, quiet moment, she considered barging into Sherlock's room, throwing herself on the bed, and demanding he finish what he had started. But then, her mind took over, she took a deep breath, and went up to her room, eager to get her mind off the way he had pressed his chest against hers, and slid his body up between her thighs.

 

Molly remained in her room for the rest of the day. She watched the sky grow dark as she read her old medical textbooks and watched videos of cute animals and pet rescues. At around 9PM, the feelings of lust and frustration finally subsided. They were replaced by a feeling of decided resentment, a feeling she wasn't entirely sure of how to deal with.

 

So she paced. She paced, and she muttered to herself.

 

“Years I pined over him, that- That ridiculous man! Years! Years wasted, years where I didn't date, didn't even look at anyone else, just him, just Sherlock. And now? Now, when I am finally starting to get over him? Well of course it would happen now, why wouldn't it. And the kissing, and the cuddling, and the _marriage_...” She muttered for a good long while, until she had gotten it out of her system. With a heavy sigh, Molly changed into her pyjamas, removing her bra and knickers, and flopping back onto the bed. Wide awake and feeling glum, she turned on her laptop, and started up Robin Hood.

 

An hour or so later, Molly was curled up in bed, trying to force herself to remain awake till the end of the movie, when she heard a gentle knock at her bedroom door. She sat up, pulling the blankets up with her. “Come in,” she said. The door creaked open to reveal Sherlock, standing there in his blue pyjamas, a small box in his hand. He walked into the room, for once looking less than sure of himself. He looked around, eyes landing on everything but Molly. He cleared his throat, fiddling with the box.

 

“I have the last camera, for your room,” he said. Molly blinked at him, confused. “A camera? What-” and then it clicked. She gasped, and pulled the blankets right up to her chin. “Sherlock Holmes, if you are thinking about what you are thinking about, you can just- You can go away, go straight back to your room!” she exclaimed shrilly. At last he looked at her, exasperated. “Molly, don't be foolish. Obviously I will not be filming us having sex. For one thing, the moment we consummate the marriage, we become unable to annul it. Secondly, leaking footage of us engaged in coitus would be overkill, they already believe we are sexually active, given that I have impregnated you. However, it seems the press is most surprised by the rumour that we sleep in separate bedrooms. And so, for tonight, I will install the camera, share your bed, cuddle, all the dull marriage skulduggery, and in the morning, a selection of papers will be leaked images of us embracing in bed.” Molly thought about it for a moment, chewing nervously on her lip, then nodded. She watched as Sherlock began hooking up the camera, angling it to properly view the bed. Then, the detective approached the bed, moving the laptop to the floor, before just standing there, looking uncertain.

 

After a few moments of awkward silence, Molly sighed, and crawled over to kneel in front of him. With the speedy efficiency that comes from slicing into corpses, she unbuttoned Sherlock's pyjama top, tossing it to the floor. “The pants stay on,” she mumbled, trying to sound firm. Sherlock just stood there stiffly and nodded. With an answering nod, Molly kissed him quickly on the cheek, and then retreated to her side of the bed, curling with her back to Sherlock. A moment later, the lights flicked off, and she felt the bed shift under the weight of another person. Molly remembered her first night in 221B, the way she had pressed against Sherlock, and blushed as she felt his arm land protectively around her waist. Neither of them spoke a word as they shifted and got comfortable, Sherlock pressing his front against Molly's back, Molly tucking her head under Sherlock's chin. She squeaked a little as his pelvis came to rest, curving around her bottom, but aside from that, everything was silent.

 

Minutes ticked on. Molly lay there, warm and safe in Sherlock's arms, feeling strange. Comfortable, where she ought to feel awkward. Cozy, where she might normally feel stifled. She chewed on her bottom lip, her back tingling every time she felt Sherlock breath onto her hair. She found herself counting the seconds between his breaths, listening to him fall asleep. When she was convinced that he was really out of it, Molly carefully rolled over in his arms, facing him. She could just make out his features in the thin moonlight, the tip of his nose, the curve of his cheek, the outline of his upper lip. Somehow, even with all the confusion, the conflicting emotions, the resentment, in spite of everything- This felt right. Laying in Sherlock's arms. Holding him as he slept. Molly felt a smile tugging at her lips, and, before she could talk herself out of it, she pulled herself closer. She slid her arms under his, hands sliding onto his back. She pulled a leg up high, bending her knee over his hip, pressing herself into his warm torso. In a moment of courage, looking at his peaceful, sleeping face, she leaned up, and pressed her lips lightly against his. He tasted like peppermint, and felt warm and soft. Then she nuzzled against his shoulder, shutting her eyes, missing the way Sherlock shifted, gazed down at her, and permitted the ghost of a smile to touch his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go, next chapter! There is very little plot to this, I must admit. Really just a chapter of fluff. I hope it pleases! Again, thank you for all the comments and kind words! I really do appreciate it. :} Thank you for reading!


	15. Chapter 15

Molly woke up slowly, still partly trapped in her dream. She couldn't quite remember what her dream had been about, but she knew she felt a lot angrier about the unethical treatment of skunks after having it. She groaned and stretched, wiggling her toes under the sheet, and opened her eyes.

 

Sherlock was sitting on the floor beside her bed, chin resting on his fingertips, eyes shut. Molly let out a little sigh, and pushed herself up into a seated position, pulling the blankets up to surround her. At the sound of the movement, Sherlock's eyes slitted open to look at her. She furrowed her brow at him.

 

“Did I push you out of bed in my sleep?” she asked jokingly. He didn't respond for a long moment. “There was sufficient footage of us sharing a bed, I didn't feel the need to stay any longer,” he responded after some thought. The crease between Molly's brow deepened. “But- You stayed? In my room? To sit on my floor? Why did you stay?” she asked, blinking at him. Now Sherlock frowned, and his eyes darted around, as if only just realizing where he was. He was quickly on his feet and pacing. Molly watching him, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Every now and then the detective would look over at her, and stop pacing, only to pause, shake his head, and resume. After a few moments of this, Molly took a deep breath, stood, and quietly exited the room. She went into the bathroom, still concerned about Sherlock, the confusion she had seen in him, but fully aware that he would puzzle himself out whether or not she was in the room. Content with that knowledge, she went through her morning routine, brushing her hair up into a knot at the back of her head, washing her face, going to the toilet, and brushing her teeth. By the time she was finished, and had gone back to her room, Sherlock was gone.

 

Around lunchtime, a delivery man stopped by with a few more boxes of her belongings, including, to her delight, three of her violet plants. Two of them had bloomed while she was gone. The third and largest, however, had refused to produce any buds in the past year. Molly had considered it beyond blossoming point, a sort of pretty lost cause, but looking at the silky, purple flowers on the other two, she decided to make it her project of the day. After some tea and a sandwich, Molly started up her laptop, and began researching. A number of website mentioned excess of sun, lack of water, the possibility that living with pets might stunt the growth of an African Violet. But after some digging, she found a website that identified another potential cause.

 

**AFRICAN VIOLETS –** **_Saintpaulias_ **

 

**The African Violet, or Saintpaulia, is a vibrant, jewel-toned plant, from its rich purple flowers to its deep green foliage. The plants require little fussing- A window providing indirect sunlight, well drained soil, and good air flow. However, some consideration must be given to suckers. Once spotted, a sucker should be removed and either discarded, or planted in soil, where it will grow into its own individual plant.**

 

Molly frowned, opened a new tab, and entered a search for violet suckers. Ten minutes and a couple of videos later, she laid newspaper out on the little kitchen, set down her violet, one of Sherlock's teacups (which she packed some dirt into), grabbed a sharp little paring knife, and sat down to examine her plant. Poking at the leaves, and prodding stems out of the way, she found that, indeed, there was a little baby violet plant clinging to the mother, casually sucking away the energy from its host. Molly took a deep breath, chewing on her lip, and dove in with her knife. After a few minutes of muttering, quiet cursing, and soil-tossing, Molly stepped back with a satisfied smile, looking at her two separated violets. Humming cheerfully, she placed them by the brightest window in the flat, and then took to cleaning.

 

The day passed quickly, with few interruptions. Molly did laundry, cooked, washed some dishes, read a book, dusted, and spent a few hours watching old movies. It was around 4PM when she heard the door to the flat swing open, as Sherlock came striding in. He looked agitated, bouncing around on the balls of his feet as he removed his coat. Molly looked up from her spot on the sofa, smiling a little.

 

“You're home early,” she said lightly. He scowled a little, and stomped into the kitchen. After a moment, Molly followed him. The fridge, three cupboards, and the cutlery drawer were open. Sherlock was pacing, a frown on his face. Molly quietly went behind him, shutting doors as she went, and put the kettle on to boil. Then, she went to the little table, sat down, and watched him pace. He still hadn't finished when the kettle started to shriek, but she made a full pot of tea nonetheless. She was pouring herself a second cup, when Sherlock came to sit across from her. She set up a mug for him as he began postulating.

 

“Earlier this afternoon, a team of officers went to Jeremy Moore's home with a warrant for his arrest, due to the suspicions of his involvement in the murders. When they arrived, however, they found him dead in his kitchen, his throat most thoroughly slit. They examined his belongings. On his camera, there were multiple pictures of you and me, the majority taken through windows, distorted by drapes and by distance. The last four shots, however, were of me, the other day as I followed him. It seems he knew of my suspicions. It seems likely that he voiced his concerns to the other members of his group, and eliminated him in an attempt to conceal the connection. The autopsy is likely being performed now, however, I believe his partial decapitation may not have been the cause of death, and I don't trust the idiot they have replaced you with.” Molly grinned into her tea at that, and cleared her throat.

 

“What makes you think-” Sherlock interrupted her, pulling out his phone and scrolling quickly through it, and passed it to Molly. The quality was blurred, and it was dark, but the picture was clearly one of the corpse. “I wasn't able to do a full examination of the body myself, but Mr Moore's eyes were bloodshot, it appeared as though one or more vessels had burst. His lips and fingernails had faint purple marks, some discolouration. And there was a strange bruise forming around the wound on his throat, one which seemed out of place in relation to his other wounds. I would guess that Mr Moore was strangled, and then carved to match the other murder victims,” Sherlock said, standing quickly, and beginning to pace again. Molly nodded thoughtfully, squinting at the picture.

 

“Well it's tricky without the body actually here, but it looks like asphyxiation to me,” she agreed. Sherlock leaned over her shoulder, flicking through the pictures, pulling up a close-up of the throat wound. “You see, there, the bruise,” he said, shoving the screen right up against her nose, practically bouncing behind her. Molly nodded, taking the phone and zooming in. “It doesn't look like a hand print, I see no finger marks. But it doesn't look like rope, either,” she muttered, her nose twitching irritatedly. It was a strange bruise, faint, and she was unable to examine it properly, which was frustrating. With a sigh, she stood, carrying the teapot over to the sink to rinse it out. 

 

“If I had to guess, I'd guess that his airway was cut off with a blunt object, and then had his throat slit to try to hide any marks. I mean, you'd be able to see he was suffocated when you were doing the autopsy, but with the throat so torn up, you wouldn't be able to see what weapon had been used,” she said absently, carefully balancing the pot on top of the other clean dishes. She turned, about to ask if he had gotten a shot of the hands, but found herself rather startlingly close to Sherlock. He had quietly come up behind her, and now paused, narrowing his eyes at her. He had an odd look on his face, an expression Molly couldn't decipher. Curiosity? Annoyance? Concern? Molly opened her mouth to ask if he was okay, but before she could ask, he began lowering his head, leaning in closer to her. Molly thought quickly, and leaned just out of reach, looking down at the ground.

 

“Sherlock, please. Please, aren't there enough pictures for the press?” she asked quietly, not feeling emotionally capable of moving from gruesome murders to playing marriage. 

 

“I took the cameras down this morning, while you were in the shower,” Sherlock replied in a low voice. Molly started at that, and looked around. It was true, the cameras had been removed from their hiding places. She frowned. 

 

“Then what are you- Why are you-?” Sherlock sighed heavily, straightened, and focused on a spot on the wall just above Molly's head. 

 

“I don't know,” he said after a moment. “It's strange to me. Exasperating. Troubling. But, I enjoy it nonetheless, and I'd like to study the effects properly,” he said. Molly frowned. “You want to study the effects,” she repeated. Sherlock looked down at her and nodded. “Yes, the effect that our physical contact has, the chemical reaction, the body's response,” he said. Molly blushed a little, then shook her head. “But here, now? What about the case?” she asked. “At present, I have only the facts I have just presented to you. Until the autopsy has been performed, it is unlikely I will make further connections. Until I am given further information, I will be... Irritated. Some distraction would be most welcome,” he replied. Molly snorted a little at that. Then she looked up at Sherlock, who was staring at her, almost warmly. And she nodded. 

 

Sherlock reached down, taking Molly's hands and placing them gently on his shoulders. His own hands settled on her waist. He hesitated for a moment, tilting his head as he observed her. Molly bit her lip, looking up at him nervously. She was worried, worried about how this might affect their friendship. Until this point, every kiss, every touch, was an act. Only that. A play at being married. But this? This was entirely different. She thought quickly, trying to think of the pros and cons, but found her mind slipping on any sort of coherent thought. So, throwing caution and reason to the wind, she rose up on her tip toes, and kissed Sherlock soundly on the mouth. The response was immediate. The hands on her waist clenched, pulling her closer. Sherlock deepened the kiss, angling his head, and pressing harder against her. Molly felt heat pooling in her tummy, and climbing up her neck, making her legs feel wobbly. She sucked his bottom lip into her mouth, and heard him growl softly in the back of his throat. Suddenly, he pulled back, and lifted her, setting her down hard on the kitchen counter. Molly squeaked in surprise, a hand flying up to cover her mouth, aware of how red her face was. Sherlock pulled the hand away, placing it back on his shoulder, and cupped the back of her head, pulling her back in. 

 

The kiss was becoming more heated. Molly was finding it hard to breathe. Sherlock's hand slid down from her waist, running over her hip, and squeezing gently at the flesh of her thigh. Molly made a breathy little noise which sounded rather embarrassingly like a moan. In response, Sherlock stepped in between her knees, parting her legs with his hips. His hands fell to her rear, and he pulled her to the edge of the counter, leaving her squashed tightly against his torso. 

 

The kiss seemed to last for hours, changing angles and tempo and pressure. Every time it seemed as though it was coming to an end, Sherlock would bite her lip gently, or Molly would run her short fingernails over the back of his neck, and they would begin again with renewed excitement. After some time, Molly became aware of a pressure at her core, pressed hard against her. She gasped, both incredibly turned on, and incredibly surprised. Somewhere in the back of her mind, a voice was shrieking. Sherlock Holmes, kissing her, and being physically aroused by it? Molly ran her fingers through his hair, kissing him hard, and gently rocked against him. She was rewarded with a sharp gasp, the detective thrusting up against her. Molly moaned softly against his mouth, and ground her hips, feeling the length of him, jutting thickly against her sensitive core. She got a slow rhythm going, gyrating against him, and Sherlock gave a low, guttural groan. But then, all of a sudden, Sherlock stopped, snapping back, hands still on her hips, but now using them to keep her away. Molly reeled back, startled, looking around, half expecting to see Mrs Hudson there, or a murderer, or Lestrade, leading the SAS into the sitting room. She looked back at Sherlock, who had dropped his head, and was breathing hard, and hopped off the counter, worried. 

 

“Sherlock?” she said, touching his arm. He jumped back out of the way, throwing out an arm to hold her back. He was still looking at the ground, away from her. After a few moments, he breathed in sharply through his nose, and straightened, giving her a hard look.

 

“Molly, we shouldn't do this,” he said, sounding strained. Almost angry. Molly blinked at him, frowning as she tugged her shirt back into place. 

 

“Sherlock, what is it, what do you mean, what-”

 

“Allow me to rephrase. Molly, we are not going to do this,” he said. Molly stopped, mouth snapping shut, alarmed by the almost cold look in his eyes. She felt a storm of emotions brewing in her midsection, hurt, humiliation, anger and immediate regret clawing at her insides. Before she could work out what to do or say, there was a loud noise from the little table. Sherlock's phone was ringing. He went to it, answered, and went still as he listened. Then he gave a short nod. “On my way,” he said sharply, and slid the device into his pocket. Without even looking at Molly, he strode out of the kitchen, through to the sitting room, and left the flat, shutting the door hard behind him.

 

Molly watched him go, jaw tense, stomach aching, mind reeling. Her eyes were welling up with tears, and her body hurt, as if he had struck her. She looked around the kitchen, as if the counters and drawers could explain what had happened. She was shaking, clenching and unclenching her fists, trying desperately to hold herself together. But Sherlock's words kept echoing and repeating in her mind, taunting her, stabbing at her. With a small whimper, Molly dropped down on her knees, covered her face with her hands, and cried silently until her energy was spent and her eyes were raw and dry. Then, she picked herself up, went up to her bedroom, and locked the door behind her. She stripped, crawled back into her bed, and pulled the blankets up over her head. According to her phone, it was only 6:30PM. Regardless, Molly stayed there for the rest of the night, occasionally squeezing out a few more tears, until her exhausted mind sent her into a troubled sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHOOPS IT'S BEEN A WHILE. SORRY GUYS!
> 
> I've been super busy, so it's taken me some time to be able to sit down and get this all out. Dreadfully sorry, and I'll do better next time!
> 
> So here we have some developments, both in terms of the case and the marriage. Just so you know, my challenge still stands! If you can guess how the murder went down, I will write a oneshot of your choice, any fandom or pairing you like, and will post it here for you to enjoy. I hope you liked this chapter, please do comment to let me know what you think, and thank you for waiting so patiently. :}


	16. Chapter 16

Molly had a hard time sleeping that night. Even with her window open and the blankets thrown off, she felt too hot. She would nod off, only to face thin, colourless dreams where groups of people yelled and laughed at her. She awoke every hour, at the smallest of noises. At 11:14PM, she woke up to the sounds of someone giggling in the street. She crossed to the window, squinted out onto the moonlit street, and spotted a young couple walking, holding hands, smiling happily at each other. Molly watched as they rounded a corner and disappeared from sight, her eyes welling up, much to her annoyance. At 12:32AM, she was roused when the moon went behind a cloud, darkening her room. She stared at the ceiling, feeling empty and numb, till the pale blue light returned. At 1:28AM, she awoke when her phone buzzed. She opened the new message with a frown. It was from John.

 

MOLLY, HAVE YOU SEEN SHERLOCK? I MISSED THREE CALLS FROM HIM, HAVING A HARD TIME GETTING BACK TO HIM.

 

Molly sent back a quick no, and curled up, holding her pillow to her chest as her tired eyes began prickling. She must have fallen asleep, because at 2:51AM, she was nudged awake. Opening her eyes blearily, she looked up, and saw Mary sitting beside her, a small, sad smile on her face.

 

“H'lo,” she said quietly. “I'm sorry, I didn't want to wake you up, but Sherlock wanted me to, you know how he gets.” Molly nodded slowly, worrying at her lip.

 

“Is everything okay?” she croaked, her throat scratchy from crying. Mary nodded hastily.

 

“Oh yes, it's good news, actually! Sherlock solved the case. The whole thing is taken care of, you can go back to your normal life,” Mary said brightly. Molly went very still, staring down at the bed, jaw tense. Mary frowned a little. “Probably a lot to take in right now, I told Sherlock he could just tell you tomorrow, but he seemed to think it best you heard the news right away.” Molly nodded. It made sense. He would want her to know so that she could be gone from his flat as quickly as possible. 'After all,' she thought, 'that's how Sherlock Holmes deals with emotional situations. He doesn't.' Molly tried to breathe deeply, to remain calm, but her breath caught in her chest, and suddenly she was crying again, fat, itchy tears pouring from her eyes. She threw herself onto Mary, hugging her with all the strength she had. Mary, to her credit, hesitated for only a moment before she began stroking Molly's back, holding her tight, and saying nothing. After a few minutes, when the tears had slowed, Molly pulled away, wiping her face, looking and feeling more miserable than ever. She sniffled loudly, her chin wobbling dangerously, and looked at Mary with her big, dull eyes.

 

“Mary, is he here now? Sherlock?” Mary shook her head. “No, he sent me along to tell you, then went to the station to assist with the arrests. John's down in the car, we were going to go see if we could help sort everything out,” she said, giving Molly a worried look. Molly nodded in response, looking around the room.

 

“Mary, I- I can't stay here, I need to go home, I need my own bed, I need to not...” She trailed off. Mary studied her friend for a minute, then nodded. She hopped up, turning on the lights. “Right then. You get changed, I'll get John. Three of us working, we should be packed and ready in about fifteen minutes.” Molly nodded, stumbling out of her bed and throwing on shorts and a huge David Bowie t-shirt. Mary returned with John, who came into the room cautiously, and smiled at Molly as though she was a timid animal. Thankfully, neither of them asked Molly what had happened, they just quietly set to work, John packing up the books, Mary packing up the clothes. Molly did a quick walk through the flat to check for anything she may have missed. By the time she returned, holding a few books, a pair of socks, her favourite mug and her violet, most of her belongings were in boxes again.

 

The ride back to Molly's flat was a quiet one. Molly sat in the back, balancing the box of plants on her lap. Looking up at the moon, she realized belatedly that she had left her baby violet behind. She didn't bother asking to go back for it. She was vaguely aware of John peering at her through the rear-view mirror, his brow furrowed, face full of concern. She ignored him.

 

It was 3:48AM when they trudged into Molly's flat, all bearing boxes and weary expressions. After carrying in all of Molly's possessions, the trio stood in the doorway of the bedroom, nobody looking at all comfortable. John cleared his throat after a moment.

 

“Well, we've got to, erh... I mean, the police will want our statements,” he said quietly. Molly nodded, trying to smile at him. “Of course, yeah. Good job and all, with catching the baddies. I should probably start unpacking,” she said. John and Mary shared a look.

 

“You know, Molly, you're always welcome to come stay with us for a while,” Mary said kindly. Molly nodded, staring at the floor. “Thank you, really. But I think I'd like to be alone for a while.”

 

Hugs were given, and quiet promises to check in later. After they were gone, Molly picked up her box of flowers and shuffled down the hall to her bedroom. For a moment she just stood there, looking around. Bright yellow wallpaper, patterned with sprays of colourful flowers, framed by white trim. A big, squashy bed with an old, ornate brass bed frame, made up with white sheets and a cream coloured duvet. A cheap little bedside table, with a big lamp on it for late night reading. Her dad's squashy old armchair in the corner. She inhaled deeply. It was a bit musty, so she slumped over to the window, opening it wide, and arranging her plants on the sill. Her stomach was churning with mixed emotions. Standing in her room, with the bright colours and the cozy furniture, felt comfortable and lovely, the way home ought to feel. It was a relief to be back. But at the same time- Her mind flicked to the night before. The warmth of Sherlock's chest against her back, the soothing sound of his breathing. His face, so serene in the moonlight as he held on to her. Thinking about him hurt. Rather than dwell, Molly set her jaw, and made her way to the bathroom. She showered quickly, covering herself with bubbles from head to toe, washing away the smell of Sherlock. Then she brushed her teeth, moisturised, and plaited her hair, winding the wet braid up on top of her head. Molly went back to her room, shut off the lights, didn't even bother to put on her knickers. She slid into bed, and finally, at 4:59AM, the exhausted pathologist fell asleep.

 

Molly slept in late the next day. When she finally opened her bleary eyes, it was almost noon. The sky outside her window was a cloudy grey, and Molly very nearly rolled over and shut her eyes again. But she pushed herself up, pulled on her fluffy old bathrobe, and made for her laptop.

 

There were three emails. The first, from work.

 

_Hello Molly,_

 

_We just watched the news, what a ridiculous week this must have been for you! Of all the stupid bloody things Sherlock Holmes has done, I must say, this really takes the cake. We don't blame you at all, though, we have had a full explanation from both Holmes and Inspector Lestrade. At this point, however, there's the matter of getting your schedule back on track. We have Chester Lewis on loan from King's, however, your presence has been missed. Please respond as quick as you can so we might sort out this mess._

 

_Yours,_

 

_Mike Stamford_

 

Molly chewed on her lip thoughtfully. She was torn. On the one hand, she needed to get back to work. On the other hand, she almost felt too vulnerable to deal with anyone, even the dead. Shaking her head, she skipped to the next email, which came from her brother.

 

_Hey Snaps, guess the whole story is out now, the bad guys got caught? Just wanted to make sure you're okay. Give me a call when you can._

 

_Cheers,_

 

_Mark_

 

The third and final email came from Lestrade.

 

_Molly,_

 

_I heard you and Holmes had a bit of a fight. Let me know if you need anything._

 

_-Greg_

 

Molly sighed, and shut her computer. She was about to scuffle down to the kitchen to make a bit of breakfast, when she heard a knock on her door. She frowned, tied her robe tightly around her, and went to answer it. But there was no person on the other side. There was a letter. It was tied to the top of her door frame with a white silk ribbon, and gently smacked her in the face as she opened the door. Her frown deepened, but she took the letter, and shuffled back to her room.

 

It was addressed to Mrs Molly Holmes.

 

 

_Dear Mrs Holmes,_

 

_I have reason to believe that you have gone through a sort of falling out with my brother. Due to the complicated nature of your relationship, and the conflicting emotions the both of you appear to be experiencing, this comes as no real surprise._

 

_Given that Sherlock has now solved the crime, the next logical step would be for you to annul the marriage. That has been the plan thus far. However, I have reason to believe that such a step would be a regrettable mistake. When Sherlock originally got in touch to inform me of his plan, requesting my assistance in order to move the wedding preparation along, I had my doubts concerning his motives. I have been aware for some time now that, due to John Watson's marriage to Mary Morstan, my brother has been going through a negative shift in his way of living. Growing up, neither of us were particularly skilled in forming relationships with our peers. As such, Sherlock became incredibly adept in avoiding dependence on others. On meeting John Watson, however, he became quite decidedly attached. Through the course of their friendship, my brother has become much more sentimental, and in his way, he has become almost needy. So when John Watson moved from 221B, and got married, my brother slowly began the process of receding from the mass population, as he had done in childhood. If he had been allowed to continue on this path, I have little doubt that he would have become a recluse once more. I admit, part of me relished the thought._

 

_However, his actions leading up to your marriage gave me pause. My brother threw himself into planning your wedding with a sort of single-mindedness he usually reserves for his mental process. In the early stages of his plan, he selected you, as you are one of the few he has bonded with. Initially, I regarded your relationship as an unhealthy one, in which my brother recognized the feelings you have for him, and exploited them, performing a sort of emotional blackmail in order to acquire parts and knowledge. For this reason, I was wary of his choosing you to play wife. I believed it an unnecessary and damaging selection, that my brother would once again manipulate you before releasing you. It was when Sherlock demanded that he be the one to retrieve you that my view on the matter was changed._

 

_It is my belief that Sherlock has spent far too long mourning the loss of his routine with John Watson. He has grown irritable and dull without his flatmate. With a lack of companion, I worry that my brother will allow himself to waste away. But, it becomes clear to me now that he has selected a new companion. My brother speaks highly of you, both in regard to your skill and your value as a person. It may be hard to see it at times, but Sherlock appears to care deeply for you, in a way that is at odds with his typical behaviour. Where he chose John Watson to be his friend, his companion, he has chosen you to be his wife. This is not an action you should take lightly. I have spent some time researching and monitoring you, and I believe you would be a great asset to my brother, and, in time, I believe he would grow to be a good husband to you._

 

_I understand that Sherlock Holmes is a difficult man to get along with. And I understand that, at present, you are likely both frustrated and resentful of his treatment of you. I do hope you will see your way to resolving your problems, as it is my belief that ending your relationship may be the final push that would send my brother into a debilitating melancholy. The world would be worse for his loss, a fact I believe you know more than many._

 

_Sherlock Holmes needs you, Molly Hooper. Consider your next move carefully._

 

_With regards,_

 

_Mycroft Holmes_

_  
_ Molly sat very still. She read the letter a second time, then a third. Then she set it down, pulled off her robe, and went back to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooo, rocky territory. You know things are getting dangerous when Mycroft writes a letter. So! There you have it, another chapter! The murder is solved, and this story is nearing its end. If you have any theories, send them along. I hope you liked this chapter, please comment and let me know what you think. I hope to have the next chapter up soon. :} Thank you for reading!


	17. Chapter 17

When Molly next emerged from under her blanket pile, lunchtime had come and gone. She felt empty. With a heavy sigh, she rose, and wandered to the kitchen. As her kettle heated up, she dug through her pantry, grabbing flour, baking soda, sugar, cinnamon, ground ginger, vanilla, molasses. If ever there was a need for comfort food, this was surely it.

 

She was halfway through her second cup of tea and sliding the first tray of ginger-snaps into the oven when there was a knock at the door. Molly frowned, biting her lip, sure who she would find on her stoop. But she shut the oven, set the timer, and went to answer the knock regardless, heart pounding in her chest. She opened the door, and stepped aside, giving Sherlock room to come in. With him came Mycroft, Anthea, and a short, balding man she did not recognize. She shut the door behind them, watching them all move through to her sitting room. Molly paused for a moment, unwinding her thick braid and running her fingers through the long waves. It fell around her face and shoulders like a cloak, and made it easier for Molly to straighten her back, clench her fists, and go attend to her guests. Mycroft and Anthea were sitting on the sofa, on either side of the short man. Sherlock stood in the corner, staring out the window. Molly pointedly avoided looking at him, sitting in her chair, and aiming a tense smile at the stranger on her couch. He smiled back, looking every bit as tense.

 

“Mrs Molly Hooper Holmes, yes? I'm Gerald Chilton, very pleased to meet you. I understand we have a- well, eh, a rather speedy bit of legal business to take care of.” His eyes darted to Mycroft, who nodded. The poor Mr Chilton was sweating, and looking almost distressed. Molly frowned as he went rifling through his briefcase, pulling out a thick envelope. Out of that came a number of papers, which were laid out on the table. Lots of legal documents, forms, a thin booklet, and the marriage certificate. Mr Chilton cleared his throat, mopping his forehead.

 

“Right, well, down to business. This is usually a process which would take at least six weeks, but, eh... Yes, well, we'll be speeding things up a wee bit. Yes. So Mr Holmes has already signed the majority of the documents, so down to you. First we have this, the divorce petition, if you could just sign here. This just shows that you're consenting to the annulment of your marriage.” Molly looked down at it, nodding, and tightened her lips at the sight of Sherlock's familiar scrawl. She quickly signed it and handed it back. “Good, yes, moving on, I will consider your petition.” Chilton looked down at the paper, uncertainly, then up at Mycroft, who was giving him a hard look. The lawyer nodded, scribbling his own signature on the form, tucking the paper away and pulling out another.

 

“Yes, right, well, now that's been approved, moving on. Normally at this stage there would be a court hearing, but, ehm, for the sake of efficiency, we'll just skip over that bit. This is an application form for a decree nisi, which, I mean, normally there would be a lot to write in here, the reasons you wish to terminate the marriage, uhm- I don't think we have time for all the writing now, but if you could just state your reasons?” Molly nodded.

 

“Well, Sherlock asked me to marry him in order to work on his case. It was never meant to be a long marriage, just one lasting until some criminals were caught,” she said quietly. Mr Chilton nodded. “So you're saying that, due to the circumstances surrounding the union, your marriage was not valid? And that you have no intention of honouring the wedding vows, or starting a family?” Molly looked over at Mycroft, who was staring at her with a frightening lack of expression. Molly set her jaw. “That is correct,” she said. Chilton nodded, scribbling something down on the paper. “And am I right in believing that your marriage has not been consummated?” he asked. Molly looked over at Sherlock, who was still looking out of the window. She could see his cold expression reflected in the glass, and for a moment, their eyes met. Then she looked away, shaking her head. “The marriage was not consummated, no,” she said, annoyed at how bitter she sounded. The form was passed to her. She signed it quickly, looking it over just long enough to see Sherlock's signature. The form was taken away, and another produced.

 

“Alright, so this is your decree nisi, you'll want to hold on to this for your records,” he said, and Molly nodded, taking the paper slowly. “Right, so, normally at this point there would be a waiting period, but hey, no time like the present!” A few pages were passed over to her. “This is the notice of application for your decree nisi to be made absolute. If you could just fill in your information, please?” Molly nodded and quickly scribbled in her details. She looked down at it, worrying at her lip.

 

“So this, then, if I sign this, it will mean we aren't married any more?” she asked, not looking up. “Yes, if you sign there, I will be able to give you your decree absolute, which will officially terminate your marriage, and give you the freedom to remarry if you want to.” Molly blinked, staring at the pages, flipping through them. Sherlock had filled in his information, but he had not yet signed it. Molly frowned, and looked up. Gerald Chilton was staring at her. Anthea was peering at her over the top of her cell phone. Mycroft was gazing at her through narrowed eyes. He would have looked completely relaxed, were it not for his tight grip on the arm of her sofa. Molly looked away, her eyes going to Sherlock. He wasn't staring out of the window now. He stood facing her, hands clasped behind his back. His face was blank. In the pale light of the window, it looked like he was wearing a mask. His eyes, though. They were hard, dancing over Molly's face, bright and confusing. Molly stared at him for a long moment. Then, without blinking, she looked back at the page, scribbling down her name. She threw down the pen, and stared at Mycroft, taking in his strange, rather annoyed expression. There was a tense, quiet moment as Sherlock came over, his footfalls loud in the cozy little room. He bent at the waist, took up the pen, and quickly signed the last of the papers. Then he turned on his heel and returned to the window. Molly cleared her throat, and turned back to the lawyer.

 

“Okay, then, so- We're not married any more?” Chilton nodded, looking rather relieved to be escaping Mycroft's company. He practically threw down the papers signifying that Molly was once again a single woman. At that moment, Molly's timer went. She forced a big smile onto her face, bouncing to her feet.

 

“Well, thanks so much for taking the time to come all the way down here, and for doing everything so quickly. That's my oven, though, so I have to go take care of that. I trust you can all see yourselves out?” With that, she scuttled back to the kitchen, cringing at how rude she had sounded. Shaking her head and trying to slow her thundering heart, Molly pulled out the tray of ginger-snaps. She took her time making up the next try, forming the biscuits very slowly, making them all the same size, stalling to ensure that everyone would be gone by the time she was done in the kitchen. A good ten minutes later, Molly slid the tray into the oven, shut the door, and set the timer. Then, with a heavy sigh, she returned to the sitting room, relieved to see that her guests had left.

 

Well, most of them, at least.

 

Sherlock was still standing in front of the window, staring out with a decidedly gloomy look on his face. Molly stopped and stared at him for a moment, uncertain. But after a long moment of thought, she ducked out of the room, returning with a plate of cookies, a couple of napkins, and a tall glass of milk. She set her load down on the coffee table, and sat back in her chair, looking at the detective. Silence stretched on. Molly frowned, picking at a cookie, feeling glum. It was beginning to dawn on her, how much time she spent feeling uncomfortable with Sherlock Holmes. Annoyed, she cleared her throat.

 

“I heard you solved the case? I mean, obviously you did, or else, you know, none of this, um... You solved the case?” Sherlock turned to look at Molly, and she saw his mask slip. He looked exhausted. His shoulders drooped, and his bright eyes closed for a long moment. Then he slowly came to sit on the sofa across from Molly. She handed him a biscuit on a napkin, which he accepted, nodding his head in thanks. For the next few minutes, the sitting room was silent but for the sound of chewing. When most of the ginger-snaps were gone, Sherlock sat back, his eyes shut. Then, finally, he began to speak.

 

“In the end, the killer gave herself away. It was Mariah Jenkins,” he said. Molly frowned. “The lady in the wheelchair?” she asked slowly, to which Sherlock nodded. He loosened his scarf, then continued.

 

“Mariah Jenkins was seventeen years old when she was married to Roger Jenkins, the man she had met in school. They were together for a few months when her pregnancy made itself known. Her father decided that she would either be married, or disowned. And so, they married. It was not a happy marriage. A few months ago, Roger Jenkins was stabbed to death by his wife, who claims she acted in self-defence. Given Mr Jenkins' violent habits, she was released. Shortly afterwards, Mariah was struck by a car, which paralysed her from the waist down.” Sherlock paused here to drink from the glass of milk. Molly was still frowning.

 

“I thought you said that the angle of the wounds made it impossible for Mariah Jenkins to have been the killer?” she asked. Sherlock nodded, swallowing, and let his head fall back against the sofa.

 

“It would have been, were she truly paralysed. It seems the relationship between Mariah Jenkins and Jeremy Moore did not begin with the killings. Before he turned to journalism, Mr Moore was actually Mr Simon Kellman, a surgical doctor from Dorset. He tended to Mrs Jenkins when she came in from the crash. We recovered her original records which had gone missing, and found that in fact, she had temporarily lost feeling in her legs, which Dr Kellman was able to restore. The two bonded. Shortly after, Dr Kellman lost a patient, a young woman who was pregnant, and experienced severe complications, resulting in her death. A week later, the woman's husband was found dead in a ditch a short distance from the hospital. Dr Kellman went missing shortly before the body was discovered. It would appear that he killed the husband of the woman who died, contacted Mariah Jenkins, altered her medical records, and fled the area, changing his identity. For a short period of time, he lived with Mrs Jenkins, going by statements from her neighbours. During this time, they created their plan. They enlisted the help of Pastor Thomas Browne, a man of questionable morals. His daughter had been manipulated into marrying a young man who had abusive parents. The emotionally damaging traits seem to have been passed on to their son, who bullied his wife, until she took her own life. The Pastor became convinced that those who force marriage do the work of the devil. So, he became an accomplice.” Sherlock sat up, leaning forward toward Molly, his fingers steepled under his chin. Molly sat back, a small frown on her face.

 

“How did you discover all of this between last night and this morning?” she asked, feeling rather dazed. Sherlock gave her a small smile.

 

“It was rather easy, in the end. The phone call I received came from St Barts, requesting my presence. Your replacement had discovered the true identity of Jeremy Moore. When I arrived, I did my own examination of the body, paying close attention to the odd mark on the throat. It was, as you guessed, the mark of a blunt object which had been used to choke Dr Kellman. On closer inspection, I found a smear of oil just under the jaw, the same oil used to lubricate the wheels of Mariah Jenkins' wheelchair. Combined with the revealed identity of Jeremy Moore, the answer came simply. Posing as a journalist, Dr Kellman would research impending weddings. If he discovered that the marriage was likely being forced on the bride due to her pregnancy, he would interview the couple, and bring his findings to Pastor Thomas Browne, who would review the information, and decide whether or not the groom was guilty of forcing the marriage. If they were, Mariah Jenkins would visit, claiming to be a distant relative. When the opportunity presented itself, she would remove the footplate from her wheelchair, and use it to asphyxiate her victim, before viciously mutilating them to hide the unique mark of her weapon.” Molly blinked, taking it all in.

 

“So after all that, it was about revenge? And then she killed Simon Kellman so that he wouldn't tell anyone?” Sherlock smiled faintly, and nodded. “Yes, she killed him once she realized he was suspected. We tracked down Mariah Jenkins and Pastor Thomas Browne this morning at approximately 2:15AM. It's finished,” he said, stretching his fingers and rolling his shoulder with a grimace. Molly nodded.

 

“Yes, it's finished,” she repeated quietly. Sherlock looked up at her, a strange look on his face. They stayed like that for a moment, just staring at each other. Once again, the oven beeped, cutting through the tension. Without a word, Molly stood, and went to shut off the oven, retrieving her biscuits. By the time she had finished, and returned to the sitting room, Sherlock's eyes had drifted shut. Molly stared at him, uncertain of what to do. Looking at him, she could see a few small cuts on the back of his hand, and a bruise was forming across his cheek. She was still furious at him, but he was clearly spent. She gave a heavy sigh. Sherlock opened his eyes, gazing at her. She folded her arms across her chest, and shifted her weight back and forth, uncomfortable.

 

“Come here, you're obviously exhausted. You can rest up here before you go home,” she said, pointing down the hall to her bedroom. Sherlock just stared.

 

“You're upset with me,” he said after a moment. Molly crossed her arms again. Sherlock tilted his head, examining her, and Molly felt a burst of shame. The shame quickly boiled into anger. She glared at him.

 

“Yes, I am upset with you,” she said through gritted teeth. “This past week, I have helped you out, and you thank me by- By doing awful, _awful_ things, and making me feel- Just- No, you know what, I don't want to talk about it right now. Go clean up, take a nap, and then leave.” Sherlock straightened in his seat, looking rather taken aback. For an absurd moment, he looked like a little boy, being scolded for tormenting a cat. He opened his mouth, to protest or to question, Molly wasn't sure. She stomped her foot, and made a small angry noise. “Sherlock Holmes, go to my room this instant!” she exclaimed shrilly, pointing wildly down her hall. Sherlock popped up to his feet, looking truly alarmed, and quickly passed her, avoiding eye contact as he went into her bedroom. Molly stared after him for a moment, feeling almost bewildered at herself, then shuffled into her kitchen. She made a cup of tea, and sat at her little table, feeling her eyes tear up.

 

Sherlock stayed in her room for about two hours. When he left, Molly was still sitting in the kitchen, staring into her empty mug. Sherlock didn't say a word, but crossed to the front door, and quietly let himself out. As the door shut behind him, Molly finally let herself look down at her collection of forms, tears running freely down her cheeks.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go, the case is finished! To everyone saying they thought it seemed rushed, ending it so quickly, I did think about stretching it out longer, but this is Sherlock. The man who saw a corpse by a river, and figured out that he had been killed by his own boomerang while a car backfired in about twenty seconds. Over a webcam. Honestly, I thought it seemed a little slow for him to take this long to figure it out. So there you go, death by wheelchair! 
> 
> Thank you so much for all the wonderful comments, you people are seriously the sweetest. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, please comment to let me know what you thought! Thanks for being lovely. :}


	18. Chapter 18

Returning to work was a hard task. The reporters seemed to have redoubled their efforts, camping on her stoop. The commute to St Barts was now full of curious stares, photographs, lots of questions. But the worst seemed to be the people at work.

 

When Molly had first returned to St Barts, it seemed every desk and table had a copy of some paper or another.

 

**DETECTIVE'S DREAM WEDDING – ALL A LIE?**

 

“ **IT WAS A MEANS TO AN END.”; A SCOTLAND YARD SOURCE SPILLS ALL**

 

**THE MAD MAN AND HIS MAD, FAKE WIFE**

 

Molly had pointedly avoided every article and tabloid for the majority of the day, but in spite of her best efforts to carry on as though everything was normal, she still found herself repeating the same story over and over again to appease the men and women she worked with.

 

“No, no. No, it was actually to catch a murderer, but, they, uh, the got him. So.”

 

“Yes, completely mad, but it worked, I guess.”

 

“Well no, obviously, he didn't get me pregnant.”

 

“Yep, no, complete load of cobblers, the whole of it.”

 

When lunch rolled around, Molly locked herself in the loo with an egg sandwich, staring gloomily at the floor. She knew they meant well, really, deep down, but it didn't make her resent them any less.

 

Thankfully, after about a week, things began to calm down. The following month fell into a simple routine for Molly. Wake up, shower, think about Sherlock, get angry at Sherlock, get dressed, eat breakfast, think about Sherlock, wonder if she had been too hard on Sherlock, go to work, perform autopsies, spend the majority of the shift deciding that Sherlock definitely deserved the harshest of words, go home, eat dinner alone, feel gloomy at the thought of eating alone for the rest of her life, and finally, fall asleep while glaring at romance books which had forever been ruined by Sherlock.

 

It was not a healthy cycle.

 

It seemed to Molly that Sherlock was avoiding her, which did little to help the situation. On the rare occasion that they passed each other during their working hours, Sherlock would slow as he approached her, only to speed by, avoiding eye contact. And when it happened, it was all Molly could do to not chase after him, fists flailing. She dealt with her tension the best way she knew how, having tea with her mother three times a week, spending the majority of her free time on her couch with her cat Toby, even seeing her sister-in-law's therapist one very glum afternoon. Mostly, she did her best to stay away from people, places or things that reminded her of 221B. Her Yorkshire tea was shoved to the back of her closet. She replaced her peppermint toothpaste with some sort of horrid citrus-blast-with-whitening-agents nonsense. And she ignored as many calls and texts from Mary, Mrs Hudson or John that she felt she could. The sane part of her mind knew that she was being ridiculous, but Molly couldn't help it. She became a hermit, stepping out only to visit corpses, or buy more food.

 

It was on one such shopping day, a misty, humid day in early June, when Molly came to suspect that she was being followed. She was in a shop, eyeing a carton of yoghurt, when she spotted a large, floppy, turquoise hat slowly leaning into her peripherals. It disappeared behind a shelf of salsa when she turned to look closer. She continued along, frowning a little. The hat reappeared briefly out of the corner of her eye as she was trying to decide if she really wanted more sprouts again so soon, but, once again, she found it impossible to spot again when she spun around for a proper look. She was starting to feel twitchy, and quickly paid, before scurrying out of the store. The final straw came as she stood in line in the coffee shop around the corner from her flat, waiting impatiently to buy a scone. She saw a flash of turquoise at the door as the welcome bell tinkled, and suddenly the hat was in line a couple spaces away, huge and bright over the heads of the people behind her. Molly frowned, and stomped out of the line, ready to either be stern at the hat, or to leave the shop entirely and run back home. But as she got nearer, she saw a familiar face, and felt herself relax. Under the brim of the ridiculous hat, was John's beaming face. Mary stood behind him with a big, cheeky grin.

 

“Surprise, we found you!” she announced in a lightly teasing voice. Molly sighed, unable to help smiling a little at her friends. “John, Mary, what on earth are the two of you doing? You nearly gave me a heart attack,” she said, shaking her head. John laughed, taking off his hat. “Well, sorry, but in our defence, you have made it sort of difficult to track you down. We decided a game of spies was probably in order, if you were planning on turning into a recluse,” he said. Molly frowned at that, turning to Mary, who was looking her up and down. Molly suddenly became rather painfully aware of her hastily trussed up hair, her grubby old clothes, and the spot on her forehead. She had never been one to fuss over her looks, but she knew that she must look a right mess. Mary gave her a small, kind smile.

 

A few minutes later, the three were sitting at a small table, each nursing a hot drink and a bun. A slightly awkward sentence stretched on as John and Mary tried to think of a polite way to voice their concerns, and Molly silently prayed that they wouldn't. But after a little while, her curiosity got the better of her.

 

“How's he doing?” she mumbled. Mary snorted into her latte and John sighed.

 

“According to himself, he's better than ever. He's taking every case that comes his way, getting a good three hours sleep, and he's even managed to find time in his busy schedule for three snacks a day,” John said, sounding irritable. Mary nodded and gave a little shrug. “We help as much as he'll let us, and Mrs Hudson keeps trying to force-feed him bacon sandwiches.” She leaned forward, taking Molly's hand.

 

“Sherlock misses you, Molly. He isn't saying so, stubborn child that he is, but he does,” she said softly. Molly frowned, shaking her head.

 

“If he misses me, why doesn't he talk to me? He completely ignores me now! And he avoids me completely if he can,” Molly protested, picking at her bun and staring into her mug. John snorted. “You're asking why Sherlock doesn't solve his own problems? The king of emotional constipation?” he scoffed. Molly smiled a little at that. The title did suit him well. Mary shook her head, squeezing Molly's hand gently.

 

“Forget Sherlock for a moment, how are you, Molly?” she asked.

 

“Trying to forget Sherlock,” Molly replied with a little shrug. She sighed. “I've just- I've been so _angry_ with him, you know?” Mary nodded, but she looked confused. With a tense little frown, Molly explained.

 

“He said we needed to act more like a married couple, so we'd be more believable, so he put cameras everywhere, and he- Well, he got more, um... More intimate,” she said, already blushing. “I knew it was all just pretending, but that last night, he said he took all the cameras down, but then he just started _kissing_ me, and he was getting handsy, and he, um. He put me up on the counter, and things...” she trailed off, waving her hands around awkwardly. The blush was at full strength. “Then he just stopped. He stopped, and said we weren't going to do that, and he looked so cold, and then he just left. He just _left_ , and me still on the counter, and-” she bit her lip, unable to finish. She risked a look at her friends. Mary appeared to have stopped mid-wince. John looked furious.

 

“Right, so in short, he's being even more of a stupid bastard than usual,” he said. Molly shook her head with a helpless little laugh. “No, I'd say this is pretty much his normal behaviour,” she said. “And then there was the Mycroft thing. Mycroft sent me this bloody email, saying he knew I was upset, but I should forgive Sherlock, and I should stay married to him, because he needs a flatmate, basically.” Now Mary was frowning. Before either of them could get any angrier on her behalf though, she cleared her throat, and finished her drink.

 

“Look,” she began as she started getting ready to go. “I know how completely stupid this all is, I really do. And I know that I'm moping, and I know that Sherlock is a prat. I just need some time to move on from all this mess, you know? I just need to move on,” she said. Her friends nodded. After some hugs and promises to get together properly some time soon, Molly left, breathing heavily, and desperately missing her bed.

 

On getting home, though, Molly found herself dwelling on the conversation. John was right, she was becoming a recluse. She stood in front of her bathroom mirror, taking in the bags under the eyes, the slightly greasy hair, the stupid spot on her face. She scowled. All this because of Sherlock. All the frumpy looks, the grumpy thoughts, because one man had hurt her. Molly sat on the edge of her tub, frowning thoughtfully. She needed to get over him. As John said, he was the king of emotional constipation, nothing would ever come of her feelings for him. It was time to make a change.

 

Molly showered. She shaved her legs, and under her arms, and scrubbed until her entire body was pink. She stepped out, wrapping herself in towels, and went to her room, laying on the bed with her phone, and started scrolling. Candice, Carl, Cindy, Cole, Connie... Cristopher. She chewed on her lip, debating. Cris had moved to England from Greece half a year ago, and started working at St Barts. They'd met one day in the cafeteria. He was sweet and flirtatious, and certainly good looking. Just a little taller than she was, with thick brown hair, big hazel eyes, a strong, masculine figure, and a permanent tan. He had offered up his number with a smile and a wink. Molly thought about him. He did seem nice. He was certainly appealing. And he was practically Sherlock's opposite. Without another thought, Molly dialed.

 

A coffee date set to go in less than an hour, Molly sprung into action. Hair was dried and styled, eyeliner carefully applied, and an incredibly flirty outfit selected. Molly stood in front of the mirror, admiring her tighter-than-usual jeans and red top (which showed a good inch of cleavage, and in a bright colour no less!). With a satisfied nod, she slipped into her trainers, put on a touch of lipstick, and strode out the door. Bound and determined to have a good time, and to forget all about the detective-who-was-not-to-be-named-even-in-her-mind, she stomped down the street to meet Cris, not noticing the head of dark curls which swivelled to watch her go, before smoothly blending into the crowds and pursuing her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A coffee date and a curly headed shadow, seems like a good place to end for now! 
> 
> You guys, thank for for all your wonderful comments, I seriously love each one I get, and they are definitely a big motivator. I know I've been taking longer than usual, and I do apologize for that*, thanks for being patient with me. I hope you enjoyed this chapter, I will try to get another one out soon. Please do let me know what you think, and thank you for reading!
> 
>  
> 
> *As a side note, in case you were curious, fostering rescued pets is seriously great. And if anyone in Ontario is looking to adopt an adorable snuggly boxer dog, I can definitely help you out. ;}


	19. Chapter 19

There was a spring in Molly's step as she made her way to the coffee shop a few blocks from her home. Her hair was in a lovely thick braid over her shoulder, and she had managed to get her eyeliner almost completely even. The sun was bright, the air smelled fresh, and there was a beautiful Greek at the end of her trip. The day was hers!

 

But as she neared the shop, she began to lose her nerve. Molly frowned. This wasn't just a passing flirtation at work. This was two people choosing to dress in nice clothes and to meet in a public place, with a potential for romance in mind. This was a date. A _date_. Molly hadn't been on a date since Tom. In fact, technically speaking, the last date she had been on was to a little Italian restaurant, where she had thrown a ring at Tom's face. That had been half a year ago. She stopped in the middle of the pavement, the coffee shop in sight ahead, doubts filling her head.

 

Wasn't it too soon to be going on a date?

 

Should she wait longer after getting divorced?

 

Could she count what she had experienced as a proper marriage, and did that factor into this?

 

Was she really just using Cris to get over someone else, which would be really incredibly unfair?

 

What if he didn't like her?

 

Molly scrunched up her face and took a deep breath, clenching her fists. No. She was just over thinking this. Dating was easy, people did it all the time. She was a grown woman, fully capable of dating. With a determined little nod, Molly all but ran up to the shop, arriving right on time. She looked around, and spotted Cris, sitting with his back to her at a small table on the porch. The sun made his skin glow, and brought out golden streaks in his hair. His back was broad, and through the thin green shirt, she could see he was well-muscled. With a little smile on her face, Molly approached the table. When he heard her coming, Cris stood, and gave her a slow, easy smile. Molly smiled back, admiring his dimples and slightly down-turned nose.

 

“Molly! It's good to see you again,” Cris said brightly, pulling her into a little hug. Molly grinned into his shoulder. Not like Sherlock at all.

 

The two sat and ordered, Molly getting a London fog, Cris getting a cappuccino with two extra shots of espresso. Light music danced out onto the porch, something slow with guitars and accordions. With the ivy climbing up the side of the building and the bright sunlight, it felt very romantic. Molly smiled at Cris, sipping at her drink, not sure of what to say. Thankfully, Cris took up the conversational reins.

 

“I was very happy that you called me, but you know, I was sort of surprised you did. You didn't seem particularly keen on seeing me again last time we spoke,” he said, a small grin on his face. Molly's brow furrowed as she thought back to the last time she and Cris had seen each other.

 

“Oh, right! Yes, I'm sorry about that, I didn't mean to seem, well, cold I guess. I had just performed back to back autopsies on a couple of children who had been poisoned by their aunt, I was just distracted,” she explained cheerfully with a little shrug. Cris frowned, leaning forward on his elbows.

 

“That sounds horrible,” he said. Molly thought about it. It had been pretty awful, but the aunt had been locked away, so she felt more satisfied than horrified. But she quickly arranged her features into a frown, and nodded vigorously. “Oh, oh yes, very horrible, yes,” she said.

 

“So you work in the morgue?” he asked, taking a sip from his large mug. Molly nodded, and Cris furrowed his brows. “That sounds like pretty depressing, morbid work,” he said. Molly thought about that for a moment, and then shrugged.

 

“I don't mind it. I kind of like it, actually, I mean, somebody has to do it. Plus, I've helped Scotland Yard out with a few cases, so it's nice to feel like I've helped catch the bad guys,” she said. Cris considered that, and then smiled charmingly. “Well, if it makes you happy, then I am glad for you,” he said. Molly grinned at him shyly.

 

“What do you do at Bart's?” she asked.

 

“I work in the IT department,” he replied. Molly straightened with a smile.

 

“Really? Well, that must be very interesting! I used to date a guy from IT, he always told me interesting work stories,” she said. Cris's smile widened.

 

“Really? Which guy? I probably know him,” he said. Molly hesitated. “Well, to be fair, he wasn't really from the IT department, as it turned out. Um. Actually, he was sort of a psychopathic criminal who was trying to use me to get closer to an enemy of his.” Cris blinked at that, his smile faltering. “Oh, but it didn't work! And Jim actually killed himself, so there's no danger there anymore. It was all sort of dramatic, really,” she quickly explained. Cris wasn't smiling anymore. Molly felt her shoulders droop a little, and she sighed.

 

“I'm really sorry, I'm really not used to dates, it's been a while since I've done this,” she said with a little frown. But when she looked up at Cris, he was smiling at her again, with a soft, warm look in his eyes. He reached over and took her hand, his thumb gently rubbing circles on her wrist.

 

“Don't worry, you had me fooled,” he said, and winked at her. Molly blushed, and smiled at him. For a while they chatted, talking about little things. His dog Agnetha (“My ex-girlfriend was a huge fan of ABBA”), her lack of a driving license (“I get car sick really easily, so I just prefer biking everywhere, you know?”). After a while, the awkwardness subsided. Molly was beginning to feel quite comfortable, and found she liked Cris very much. He was charming, friendly, and really rather sexy. And, despite her obvious faults, he seemed to like her as well! Things were going so much better than expected, Molly was completely delighted, and even starting to get a little bit smitten.

 

All things considered, she probably should have been more prepared for things to go suddenly and spectacularly wrong.

 

Molly had been listening intently to a story Cris was telling her about his grandmother, who was apparently protective and bordering on insane, when the sun went behind a cloud. The soft breeze went from cool to chilly in the sudden shade. The two of them looked up at the sky, which was looking much more grey than blue. Molly shivered a little. Cris looked at her with a wry little smile.

 

“I don't think I will ever get used to how rainy this country is,” he said. “We should probably move inside before it starts coming down on us. Or...” he trailed off, taking Molly's hand and gazing at her with warm eyes as his thumb pressed against her palm. “I live not too far from here. We could always continue chatting at my place?”

 

Molly blinked. The back of her neck suddenly felt rather warm. An invitation back to the apartment? After the first date? Not even after the first date, _in the middle of_ the first date! Molly's mind was racing. Even with her limited experience in the world of dating, she knew what going back to his apartment meant. Was she ready? Ready to do _that_? She chewed on her lip as she thought. It had been a while, that was true. And it wasn't like she wasn't attracted to Cris, he was charming, friendly and sexy, after all. And she had been feeling rather decidedly sexually frustrated recently. Molly took a deep breath, and opened her mouth to respond-

 

“I don't think that will be necessary.”

 

Molly's mouth snapped shut, and her eyes widened in disbelief. Slowly, and silently praying that her mind was playing tricks on her, she turned in her chair. But in spite of her prayers, there he was, hands clasped behind his back, black coat buttoned up to his chin. Molly squeaked. Cris leaned back in his chair, staring up at Sherlock with a puzzled expression.

 

“I'm sorry, who are you?” he asked. Sherlock stared down at him, much in the same way that a cat lover would stare at a defecating dog.

 

“I am likely the only person in this particular coffee shop who recognizes the tell-tale signs of a man, well into his thirties, who lives with his mother, and suffers from addictions to caffeine and porn. Afflictions which have almost certainly led to your current state of poor hygiene and an overwhelming need to be coddled in all your relationships, resulting in your submissive tendencies in the bedroom, which, frankly Molly, I doubt you would be able to handle.” Cris's mouth snapped shut, and a considerable amount of colour drained from his cheeks. Sherlock gave him a cold smile. “I'm Sherlock Holmes, Molly Hooper's ex-husband.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE DATE. Such as it is. 
> 
> Thank you all for the responses, the speed with some of your commenting just blows me right away, and I love it! So please feel free to let me know what you think, and thank you for reading. :}


	20. Chapter 20

“Cris, I am so, so, SO unbelievably incredibly sorry about this, and, um, him, really sorry,” Molly said. She and Cris had stepped away from the table after their date was interrupted. She looked over with a frown, to see Sherlock still standing there, staring at them with narrowed eyes. She felt her blood boil. “I wish I could say he wasn't normally like this,” she added through gritted teeth. Cris gave a little chuckle, and she turned back to him, eyes wide and hopeful.

 

“Yes, well. I guess we all have our crazy exes,” he said, though he still looked pale and tense. He gave her a tight little smile. “For now, I think the two of you should talk. I'll leave you to do that.” After a moment of thought, he pulled her in for a small hug, and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “If you need anything, any help, maybe a sudden unexpected virus on his computer, give me a call,” he said warmly. Molly gave him a pathetic little grin, and then he was gone. The moment he had rounded the corner, the smile fell from Molly's face. She stood very still for a moment, breathing deeply, trying to calm down just enough to avoid a panic attack. Then, she stomped back over to the detective. She stood in front of him for a long moment, just staring angrily at his stupid bloody face. He gazed down at her, unblinking, and frowned.

 

“You're looking rather flushed, are you all right?” he asked. Molly gave a harsh, angry little laugh, shaking her head violently, her whole body vibrating with anger.

 

“How could you? Sherlock, how could you?” she asked very quietly, her fingers twitching at her sides. Sherlock went very still, and narrowed his eyes at her.

 

“How could I what? I merely spared you the heartache and humiliation of another failed relationship. Many would say I did you a favour,” he replied easily. Molly spluttered angrily for a moment. She grabbed him by the wrist, and dragged him off of the porch, walking him back to her flat in a silent rage. Once he had been pushed into her sitting room, and her front door had been shut tight, she exploded.

 

“A failed relationship?! You don't know it would have failed, Cris is lovely, I had a great time with him, we _might_ have been _very happy together_!” she exclaimed. Sherlock massaged his wrist irritably.

 

“It would have failed. You had no chance together. I think if you would calm yourself, you would understand my reasoning.”

 

“If I calmed- How _dare_ you tell me to calm myself, after _ruining_ my date? And for what, because he likes coffee and porn? You- Just- I don't _care_ if he likes coffee and porn! Or being submissive in bed! We could have been happy!” Sherlock gave a little bark of laughter at that.

 

“Perhaps for a little while, yes, but he would not have made you happy as a husband, not even as a lover,” he argued. Molly glared at him, furious, and even more angry to find that angry tears were welling up in her eyes.

 

“Sherlock Holmes, you haven't the slightest idea of what would satisfy me in a lover,” she hissed, her hands in fists, and her shoulders so tense that they were beginning to ache. Sherlock scoffed, and began pacing.

 

“Don't be a fool, Molly, of course I know. With your stature, your posture, your dress sense, even your choice of profession. You are a walking insecurity. The minute that man asked you to take control, you would blush and stammer and completely lose your arousal. You long to be desired, to be craved, so much that a man can't help but throw you up against a wall and claim you, so much so that any possibility of-” Sherlock's tirade was cut off abruptly as Molly's fist collided with his jaw. He fell back against the wall, eyes wide, hand pressed to his face. Molly, for her part, stood completely still, her hand stinging painfully. There were tears in her eyes as she stared at the detective.

 

“Stop it,” she said quietly. “Just stop it.”

 

For a while, the sitting room was completely silent as Molly stared at the floor, trying to find the right words.

 

“I- For years, I wanted to- You know I wanted to, and you never wanted to back. So I tried to move on. You _know_ I tried. I saw people, I went on dates, with men, I got engaged, and then- And now all this marriage stuff. And getting married. And living together, and you being so...” Molly's throat felt thick, it hurt to swallow, and the tears in her eyes were dangerously close to spilling over. “Years of wanting you. _Years_ , Sherlock. And then you were so kind, and so warm, and you wrecked it, all my trying, you wrecked it all, and made me want you all over again. And I thought, I really thought, that something would happen. Something almost happened, but then you- You just- You wrecked that too, and you humiliated me, and hurt me, and the minute I go out to try to move on, you just come back and act so horribly. Cris was _nice_. He was kind, and charming, and he actually liked me, and I liked him, and we could've been happy. Maybe not forever, but I wasn't looking for forever, I was looking for a little bit of happy right now. And he could've been that, but you scared him off, and I just don't understand why. _Why_ , Sherlock?” Molly bit her lip, hard. The tears began trickling out of her eyes, and she folded her arms over her torso, feeling strangely numb and hollow. As though her innards had evaporated, leaving nothing but her shaking skin.

 

Sherlock was staring at the floor, a frown on his face. There was a big, red mark on his chin, where Molly's punch had landed. It was far too easy to picture him as a boy. All elbows and knees, with a head of black curls, curious eyes, and a nose that was a bit too big for his face. Molly could imagine all the times his intellect and determination would have gotten him in trouble, how often he must have been scolded.

 

He probably deserved every harsh word, a hundred times over.

 

The longer he stood there, silent, the more hurt and angry Molly felt. She was about ready to throw him out, quit her job, move to Alaska, when he lifted his head and looked at her. He looked confused. Uncertain. Molly narrowed her eyes at him as he cleared his throat to speak.

 

“Molly, it occurs to me that I have treated you poorly. I ask that you forgive me, although I will understand if you cannot at this time,” he said. Then he looked at her, frowned, and turned away. He walked to the door slowly, his head lowered and tilted to one side, looking unsure. Molly stood very still, staring after him with wide eyes. He had apologized. Sherlock Holmes had apologized. It still came as a surprise that he had any idea how to.

 

Sherlock went to the door, and reached for the handle, but he paused before he let himself out. He turned to look back at her as though he had forgotten something, and his eyes danced over her, brows furrowed.

 

“It comes down to worthiness,” he said slowly. “I interrupted your date, because he was not worthy of you.” With that, the detective opened the door, walked out, and softly shut the door behind himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end of the story!
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Kidding. I'm kidding. I'm trying out shorter chapters to try to get things out faster, what do we think? And what do we think of The Talk? Glad they finally had it? Do you think things will be better soon? Will Sherlock ask Molly on a date? Have we seen the last of Cris? Only time will tell. Let me know what you think, and thank you for reading!


	21. Chapter 21

“So it wasn't really a real, _proper_ marriage, see, it was just for the case,” Molly said, staring at the floor, her phone pressed to her ear. It had been a week and a half of nervous nail-biting since Sherlock had quietly shut her door as he left her, a week and a half of considering.

 

He was not worthy of you. That's what Sherlock said. He was not worthy of you. Molly still got chills when she thought about it. What did he mean by that, though? That there was something wrong with Cris, or that she was very good? Or that someone _else_ maybe deserved her more? Was it possible that, after such a long time, Sherlock now returned her feelings? Molly was dwelling on it, she knew. Puzzling, pondering, spending an unhealthy amount of time thinking about Sherlock and their situation. She was still furious. Oh yes, completely. So even if Sherlock had finally decided- No, finally _realized_ \- That Molly was worth all that and a bag of crisps, it was no use. She wouldn't be falling for his mind or his cheekbones again.

 

Well, not as easily, anyway.

 

Probably.

 

What made it worse was Sherlock's complete absence. It seemed he had just stepped off the edge of the world. She hadn't seen so much as the tails of his coat swishing around a corner since he had left her flat. It somehow made the whole situation more tense for Molly. She had managed to get a bit of closure, though she knew that more of a talk would need to be had before they could hope to move on with their- Well, their whatever it was. But the detective had simply disappeared. He hadn't been at St Bart's, hadn't been at the station... Molly went as far as to walk very quickly down Baker Street, glancing around nervously. She walked around 221 no less than four times before she decided she was being pathetic and had gone home.

 

So at last, after a week and a half of trying to analyse the situation, Molly gave up, forced herself to believe that Sherlock wasn't worth all the emotional turmoil, and called Cris. He was friendly over the phone, and patiently listened as Molly rambled on about her situation. When she had explained everything as well as she thought she was able to, she petered out into silence. Everything was quiet for an almost uncomfortably long while, before Cris cleared his throat.

 

“Honestly, Molly, I just can't understand how you were able to deal with such a ridiculous man for as long as you did,” he said after a moment. Molly gave a small, breathless laugh, pressing a hand to her stomach, feeling incredibly relieved. “He is rather ridiculous, yes!” she agreed. The two continued to chat for a while, talk of Sherlock flowing easily into talk of family and friends. After about half an hour, they decided to give dinner a shot. A time was chosen, a place selected, and Molly hung up feeling much better about the state of the world.

 

An hour later, hair brushed and lipstick applied, Molly found herself sitting across from Cris in a pub, laughing and chatting like old friends. Cris was looking gorgeous once again, this time wearing a grey sweater that Molly just wanted to rub her face into. He ordered a plate of calamari, which Molly wrinkled her nose at, ordering some potato skins for herself. The pub was cozy, with a big fireplace and lots of red upholstery. There was a small band in the corner, playing fiddles and a piano. It was all very charming. Cris told Molly all about Greece, the things he missed from home, and the book he was reading. Molly told Cris about growing up in a very quaint little village, her love of cats, and she managed to avoid telling him about her work. Partway through the evening, Cris took her hand, and Molly blushed, which made Cris smile. When the food was finished, and their drinks had been emptied, refilled, and emptied again, Cris walked her home. He spent the entire walk holding her hand telling her he had had a wonderful time. Molly giggled, and told him she had a wonderful time as well. When they reached her door, Molly fumbled with her keys while Cris murmured that they would have to meet up again some time. Molly beamed and nodded, feeling her heart fluttering a little in her chest as Cris leaned in. They kissed on her doorstep, in the light of the street lamps. Cris had soft lips, and he tasted like lemon, with the faintest hint of garlic. Surprisingly, Molly liked it. As he left, and Molly retreated into her home, she leaned up against the door with a little sigh. While it wasn't in full crush mode yet, she certainly had some very warm feelings toward Cris. And their date had been everything a date ought to be, no murder, no crime scene, no romantic check-list... Molly smiled. It was a start.

 

She was wearing sweatpants and a tank top, and halfway to the couch with a pint of cookie dough ice cream and a film in mind, when a knock came at the door. Molly frowned, looking at the clock. 11:48PM. Awfully late for a caller. But she set down her ice cream, and padded quietly to the door. She supposed she shouldn't have been TOO surprised when she opened it, and Sherlock came swirling in, hands clasped behind his back, scarf knotted tightly at his throat. Molly gave a little sigh, and shut the door behind him.

 

“Molly, good evening. Did you enjoy your date?” he asked, snapping the word with his teeth. Molly frowned, a little. “How did you know I-” “Please, Molly, no need to be dull for my benefit.” The petite woman raised an eyebrow at that, but she said nothing, just waited for Sherlock to explain what he was doing in her flat at such a late hour. The detective frowned.

 

“Molly, there is a rather serious situation which we must discuss,” he began. Molly furrowed her brow, but said nothing, just sat down on her couch and popped the lid off her ice cream.

 

“I understand that, recently, I have behaved badly in regards to minding your boundaries.” Molly snorted at that, and Sherlock frowned. He began pacing. “I interfered in your plan to start a romantic relationship, without being entirely certain as to my motives. I cited a desire to protect you from making a potentially disastrous mistake in partner, but after some consideration, I do not believe that was what bothered me about the situation. Your date may have several flaws, but I believe he is a man of some intelligence, who could make a good lover, all things considered. I have been spending the past week considering my actions, and attempting to see the reason behind my meddling, and I have come to a conclusion.” Molly looked up at him expectantly, but Sherlock trailed off, looking decidedly uncomfortable. She was about to ask him if he was all right, when he aimed his gaze at the wall above her head, straightened his back, and began speaking.

 

“Molly Hooper, after some consideration of the situation, I have come to the conclusion that, during the course of our case, I have come to admire and desire you in both romantic and sexual ways, and I believe it wise if we begin a romantic relationship so that I may examine these emotions further.”

 

Molly's eyes widened. Her mouth fell open. There was a wet thudding noise as her ice cream hit the floor.

 

“I- You- What?” she exclaimed, scrambling to retrieve her pint. Sherlock huffed impatiently.

 

“This will be a tedious relationship indeed if you insist on squawking like that any time I speak.”

 

Molly was aware of a bubbling feeling in her midsection.

 

“You- You want to be in a relationship with me, you want to be my boyfriend?” Sherlock tutted.

 

“I would appreciate it if you would refrain from using terms such as 'girlfriend' or 'boyfriend', we are not children in a school yard. I would accept the title of 'partner', or 'lover'.”

 

It was like champagne bubbles dancing into her ribcage. There was a voice in her mind screaming and laughing and singing. Molly shook her head hard, trying to stay calm and to not simply throw herself at the detective. She cleared her throat, getting up and pacing as well.

 

“Sherlock, have you ever actually dated anyone before?” she asked after a moment. “I admit I have not, such things have always seemed dull and unimportant to me. But I believe I have gathered sufficient research into the proper way to conduct oneself in a relationship. We see each other exclusively, meet to share a meal, spend the night together, and have breakfast in the morning. After a period of approximately 18 months, I will propose, you will accept, and we will resume our marriage.” Molly whirled around at that, feeling like her head was exploding.

 

“What? Marri- Sherlock, no, slow down, we aren't going to get married,” she exclaimed. Sherlock frowned. “Why not? At your age, it makes no sense for you to delay, and if we are to attempt children, it would have to be with some measure of haste.” Molly flapped her hands anxiously. “Sherlock, no! No. No, I can't just- _Children_? Sherlock, I haven't even decided if we should date yet!” Sherlock was really frowning now. “Why wouldn't we? I assure you, I am in good physical health, and I believe my status as an alpha male would suit you far better that other potential suitors.” He sneered, leaving little doubt as to the suitor he was referencing. Molly sighed, and sat down hard on her couch. Sherlock sat on her coffee table, staring at her with a sort of alarming intensity. 

 

“Molly, you cannot deny that you retain feelings for me, in spite of the fact that I have been a prat,” he said softly. “But I would be a good lover, a good partner, and I believe that we would make each other happy.” Molly looked at him, feeling completely overwhelmed. The majority of her brain was ready to throw herself at him right then and there. But she resisted. 

 

“Sherlock, if you desired me, then why did you- I mean, we were, were _kissing_. And I thought other things were going to happen, but you stopped, and you looked so angry, I mean, _why_ -” “I admit that I was angry. But the anger was not directed at you.” He sighed, running his fingers through his hair, frowning a little. “Molly, all my life, I have chosen intellect. I made the decision at a young age that emotions and desire for other people would only get in the way of improving my mind. When I kissed you in the kitchen, it was a moment of spontaneity. When I began to react to you in a physical way, it angered me, because I believed I had overcome those urges. I ended the moment, because I was frustrated by my own human desires. That, combined with the fact that I knew your desire to end the marriage. If we had slept together, it would have complicated our marriage, and made it much more difficult to terminate.” Molly looked at him with wide eyes, thinking hard.

 

This was Sherlock. Sherlock, the man she had desired for years, the man she had loved. It had begun as a sort of idolization, before they had become better friends. Then she began to recognize his faults, and while her love had changed, it had never gone away. But this was also Sherlock, the man who had never been in a relationship, who was well known for saying horrible things, simply because he didn't understand how they could hurt a person. She chewed on her lip as she considered the situation. She found herself nodding.

 

“Sherlock, I would like to be with you. But I can't just go from married, to divorced, to being in a relationship with you.” Sherlock frowned, but Molly shook her head to silence him. “I think that, if you really want to try to be with me, that we should try casual dating.” Now Sherlock was really frowning. And sneering. 

 

“Molly, the purpose of casual dating is to become acquainted, to decide whether or not there is attraction and compatibility. We have, essentially, moved past that point.” Molly shook her head.

 

“We haven't moved past it, because we haven't done it. Look, it may not make sense to you, but it's important to me. If we're going to do this, I need to take things slow.” Sherlock frowned, considering her words. He was silent for a good while. Then he nodded.

 

“Agreed. We will take things slow. I will meet you at work tomorrow, and we will go for lunch. Goodnight, Molly.” He kissed her on the cheek, then stood, and left Molly's flat without another word. The moment he was gone, Molly began laughing and whooping, dancing around her flat, feeling as though the sun was exploding in her chest. _She had a date with Sherlock Holmes._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH MY GOOD LORD. Okay. For some reason, this was just the hardest chapter ever to write. I think I deleted and started over about three times this week. So I am very, very sorry that it took so long, but I hope you liked it! Let me know what you think. :}


	22. Chapter 22

It was, by far, the most stressful autopsy Molly had done in a long, long time.

The death itself was not particularly unusual or difficult to determine, the poor man had choked on his own vomit after a particularly wild party. It only really required a few incisions, examination of the fluids in his stomach, just a few tests. It was stressful due to a certain someone looming over her, staring at her work, with an increasingly large frown on his face.

“You were mentally present when I mentioned a lunch date, were you not?”

“Yes, Sherlock, of course I was, but yo-”

“It is presently twenty three minutes into your lunch break. Your soup has gotten cold, and I don't believe your Danish will be edible if you continue to waste your time here,” he said. Molly paused for a moment to look up at him with a shy little smile. 

“You- I have soup?” she asked, and was rewarded with an irritated little bounce from the detective.

“Well, you requested a date, did you not? So I've prepared one.” Molly grinned brightly into Mr Sheffield's small intestine. “What had you planned?” she asked coyly. Sherlock huffed impatiently from above her. “Something both romantic and whimsical, without being overly presumptuous or cocky,” he replied blankly. Molly straightened, blinking at Sherlock as she peeled off her gloves. He rolled his eyes. “I may have shared my intentions with John, who immediately went cackling to Mary. They had rather a lot to say on the subject of dates.” Molly grinned at the image, signing her notes and pulling the sheet back over the corpse.

“Well, I really am sorry about taking so long, this was sort of a last minute thing, you know. I'm sure everything will still be lovely,” she said, swapping her lab coat for her cardigan. She hadn't even finished doing up the buttons before Sherlock began pushing her toward the doors. He whisked her down the hall at a half trot, hand pressing firmly against the small of her back. Molly sped along beside him, confused as he passed the cafeteria entirely, but she knew better than to question him. Sherlock ended up jostling her down to the back entrance to St Bart's. There, he turned to face her, giving her a stern little scowl. 

“Close your eyes,” he said. Molly frowned at him, and he sighed, running a hand over his face. “I have been told multiple times, and in a variety of volume levels, that the effectiveness of this will be. increased if you close your eyes.” So Molly did, and felt Sherlock press the hand to her back once more. She heard him push the doors open, before he gave her a little shove. “I suppose that will do, open your eyes, Molly,” Sherlock announced. And so she did.

It was a picnic.

A proper red-and-white gingham tablecloth had been laid out on a patch of grass between two trees. On the cloth was a basket, in which Molly could see two Thermoses, two bowls, two plates, two mugs, and a plastic container. There was a vase beside the basket, holding two slightly rumbled looking sunflowers. There was even a candle burning away in a small glass container, though it wasn't really necessary in the bright sunlight. Molly's mouth dropped, and then she was giggling. Sherlock raised a brow at her, and she shook her head, beaming.

“Sherlock, this is absolutely lovely,” she said, looking up at him. Sherlock gazed at her for a moment, before giving her a smug little smile. 

“It is rather good, isn't it. I've always had a knack for this sort of thing,” he replied before gently leading her over to the basket. When she had sat down, Sherlock grabbed the smaller Thermos and the mugs, and poured the tea. Molly took it and smiled. Yorkshire tea, two sugars and a splash of milk. Perfect. Then he took the larger Thermos and the two bowls, and poured out some tomato soup. Out came the plastic container, which held two grilled cheese sandwiches. Molly took hers, which was somehow both a bit burnt and a bit soggy, but she was still incredibly pleased. 

For a little while, things were awkwardly quiet. Molly had only just started getting used to talking to Sherlock as a friend, she had no idea how to deal with him on dating terms. But then he raised a brow and made a comment about her tendency to dip her sandwich in her soup, and conversations just started rolling out between them. Sherlock talked about a particularly distracting case and how musical theatre was on its way out (and rightly so), and Molly talked about a cadaver she had once seen who had been pecked to death by an ostrich, and how musical theatre was perfectly lovely and still very current (thank you very much). They even made some proper small talk, chatting about the weather, things that had happened in the news, though when they got on to the subject of favourite books, a debate erupted rather suddenly.

“But, you- How can you not like it?”

“Oh come now, it was passably written, with gaping holes in the plot-line. And the fact that it has become a symbol of British life, a supposed window into the lives of the English that other countries may look at with amusement and childlike wonder, oh, mummy, look at how fun England is, let's move there. As if the country wasn't populated by enough morons as it is.”

“...but he's a wizard and there are spells and magic!”

“It is yet another aspect of the chocolate-dipped spectacle England has become. Visit any other country, I assure you, you will not find any respect for our culture or our history. You will hear no talk of architecture, colonization, our richly diversified population, only the dimwitted, gurgling ingrates, screeching about Hogwarts and Jemima Puddle-Duck.”

When the picnic had been finished and packed away, Sherlock walked Molly back toward the morgue, still ranting on as Molly tried to keep up with his train of thought. She was so distracted, she didn't hear her name being called till the third shout. Startled, she whipped around to see Cris standing in the doorway to the cafeteria, wearing a crisp red button-up and smiling warmly at her. She smiled back.

“Oh, hello Cris! I'm so sorry, I didn't hear you, how are you?” she asked, fumbling with her words a bit, feeling rather strangely guilty, though she wasn't sure if the guilt was to do with her missing his greeting, or the fact that she had been on a date with him less than 24 hours ago and now Sherlock was holding her wrist possessively, gazing stonily at the pair of them. Cris either didn't pick up on the tension or chose to ignore it, sauntering over and giving Molly a hug. 

“No worries, no worries at all. I'm very good, thank you! And yourself? Having a good lunch break?” he asked, giving Sherlock a smile which was mostly teeth.

“Wel-”

“We have been, yes, thank you so much for your concern, now if you'll excuse us,” Sherlock said, attempting to steer Molly past Cris, and completely talking over her. Molly spluttered for a moment, digging in her heels ducking away from his jostling. She gave him what she hoped was a stern look, and turned back to Cris. 

“I have been having a good lunch, yes, thank you! Just had a bit of a picnic, lovely weather for it,” she said, trying to smile without looking strained. Sherlock gave a snort from behind her, which she ignored. Cris was now looking back and forth between the two of them, squinting a little as he processed the situation. With a smooth smile, he took Molly's hand.

“Molly, I was wondering, could I maybe talk to you alone for a minute?” Molly blinked, and looked back at Sherlock, who had his eyes narrowed at her. With a frown, she nodded, and allowed herself to be pulled aside. Sherlock's eyes widened for a moment, looking affronted, and then he turned and strode away to give them some privacy. Cris gave her a concerned look.

“Is everything all right?” he asked her softly. Molly frowned.

“What? Oh, yes, I'm fine, absolutely. Sherlock and I were just having lunch.” Cris didn't look very comforted by her words.

“Are you two a thing?” he asked, sounding unsure of himself for the first time. Molly thought for a moment, then sighed.

“To be honest with you, I don't know. I mean, I like him, and we were married for a bit, and he said he would like to try dating, but I don't really know what we are right now. I think we might be two people, experimenting?” She frowned, not sure she had explained it right, but Cris was nodding with a little smile. 

“Could we perhaps continue experimenting as well, then? Because you see, I've got a couple of tickets to go see a concert on Saturday night, and I would love it if you could come with me,” he said. Molly chewed on her lip thoughtfully. She had never been asked on dates by multiple men before. There wasn't anything really wrong with it, she thought, and Sherlock had been so rude to Cris. 

“Sure, yes, that would be great,” Molly said quickly, forcing out the words before she changed her mind. Cris beamed at her, promised to phone later with more details, and gave her a quick hug goodbye before heading back toward his office. Molly took a deep breath, and went back to the morgue to deal with Sherlock. He was reclining on one of the counters, frowning up at the ceiling. He didn't even look up when she came in. 

“I hope you advised him on how to properly recognize and stay out of private moments, for his future references,” the detective muttered. Molly snorted, unbuttoning her cardigan. 

“You're one to talk,” she replied. Sherlock chuckled, and sat up, looking her over. His eyes narrowed.

“You have arranged a date with him?” Molly sighed, smoothing her hair back out of her face. “We're going to see a concert Saturday night, I don't think it really counts as a date...” she replied, resisting the urge to pout. Sherlock frowned. 

“I was under the impression that we were dating,” he said in a low voice, walking toward her. “What we are is taking it slow, Sherlock. Going on one date doesn't mean we're dating. This is kind of like a little experiment thing, you know? To see if we can, well, date,” she replied. Sherlock tilted his head to one side with a frown.

“And during this 'little experiment thing', you will continue to see other men?” “I'm not seeing Cris, I'm just going to see Cris, there's a difference,” Molly said quickly. “Look, for now, Cris is just my friend. That's all. I'm seeing a concert with a friend.” She frowned, feeling frustrated. “And besides that, you shouldn't get all possessive and rude like that. Just because I like you more, doesn't mean you own me. I can make my own decisions, thank you very much,” she said boldly, trying to puff herself up to match his height. Sherlock arched a brow as he considered this. He didn't look very pleased. But regardless, he stepped in close, and pressed a slow kiss to her cheek.

“Fine, then,” he growled, making Molly's abdomen tighten and her knees loosen. Without another word, he grabbed the picnic basket and left, leaving a dark cloud in his wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry the chapters are taking longer to come out. To be honest, I've been having a bit of a rough time. My grandfather is in the hospital, way closer to death than I ever expected him to be, so I've been a bit distracted. This was a fun chapter to write, though, so I hope you liked it! Let me know what you think. And as always, thank you so much for being so kind and supportive, you are all really lovely, and I am just chuffed at all the comments I've been getting.
> 
> As a point of interest, if any of you are on Tumblr, I'm putting up my link. If anyone wants to chat or anything, please feel free to!
> 
> http://honeycakeses.tumblr.com/


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: STOP RIGHT THIS INSTANT!!
> 
> HAVE YOU SEEN THE MUSICAL SHERLOCK VIDEO. WATCH IT IMMEDIATELY. IT IS THE BEST THING.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=909TJ1pBH9U

It was a surprisingly chilly night. There were thick clouds in the sky, and a cool breeze filled the air with the fragrance of all sorts of flowering trees and bushes. John and Mary had finally managed to get little Rosie to fall asleep, and were curled around each other in bed, exhausted, but content. Some neighbour or other was playing jazz music, which rolled in through the bedroom window. Everything was saxophones and quiet, loving chatter. Sleep came quickly, and they both nodded off with little smiles on their faces.

 

At 12:32AM, they awoke with a start to the sound of the front door banging open downstairs. Mary moved first, jumping out of the bed and running over to the crib in the corner of the room, blocking it with her body. John rolled quickly to his feet, kicking open the glory box at the foot of the bed, and tossing one of two guns to his wife. The pair shared a grim look, and aimed their weapons at the door to the bedroom. There were loud, heavy footsteps, pounding up the stairs, and thudding at a run down the hall toward the bedroom. John took a deep breath, and narrowed his eyes at the door, his finger itching near the trigger. The door swung open. Sherlock came storming in, fingers twitching, coat swishing around his legs.

 

“Molly is out on a date with a moron,” he said through gritted teeth. John gave a gasp of incredulous laughter and lowered his gun, shaking his head and trying to steady his nerves. Mary looked up at the ceiling with a sigh, rubbing a hand over her eyes. The two of them went to sit on the bed as Sherlock launched into his rant.

 

“Complete nonsense! This is a man she has known for approximately four months and two weeks, and she has agreed to endure his multiple pathetic attempts to gain entry to her bedroom over an exceedingly long visit to a sweaty, crowded theatre, and she has agreed to do so at _night_ , when the surrounding company will be distracted by alcohol and hormones and unable to assist her if or when the great prat begins pressing his advantage,” he spat, glowering around the room as he paced. John groaned a little, rubbing his temples.

 

“Sherlock, what exactly are you doing here?” he asked. Sherlock paused to frown at him.

 

“I texted you. Twice. And I rang fifteen minutes ago, you didn't answer. I considered going to Lestrade, but considering the truly impressive number of hours he has logged staring into Molly's breasts, I rather thought you were the more intelligent choice,” he said. John just gaped at him. Mary sighed, curling up against her husband's side, finally releasing the hold on her gun.

 

“Look, from what I've heard, the man is a lamb. I really don't think that Molly is in any danger with him,” she said. Sherlock snorted, shaking his head, his face contorted into the most ridiculous pout.

 

“Statistically speaking, it is far more likely for a friend or family member to commit an act of violence toward a woman than a stranger,” he said, still shaking his head. John frowned at the detective.

 

“So you came barging in here at half past midnight, because Molly is on a date and you're worried she's going to get assaulted by a man who has committed the suspicious and worrying crime of asking her out,” he said. “What exactly do you expect us to do about that?” Sherlock said nothing, but scowled, his hands twitching as he paced. Then Mary straightened up.

 

“Sherlock, is it possible that the problem here isn't that you're worried about Molly's safety, but that you're worried Molly is going to end up wanting to date Cris instead of you?” she asked. Both men stopped and turned to look at her.

 

“What, Sherlock? Jealous? You thi-” John began, but then he looked back at his friend, who was standing very still, a big frown on his face, his left eye twitching like mad. John's face slackened. “Oh my god, you're jealous of Molly's date,” he said. Sherlock snorted, throwing his hands in the air.

 

“Don't be so dull,” he sneered. “Jealous? Hardly. I am perhaps, at the most, irritated at the way Molly has been conducting herself as of late. First stating that she and I ought to date, and then chasing after the nearest dolt with a song in his heart,” he said, scowling. Mary gave a little laugh.

 

“Oh, you are so _completely_ full of it,” she retorted. Sherlock glared at her, looking affronted, but she waved a hand to silence him. “Did you think it was going to be easy, winning her back? That you would tell her you have feelings for her, and she would just swoon all over you again? You had her, then you wrecked it, now you have to fix it,” she said, leaning back on her elbows. Sherlock frowned.

 

“I hardly _wrecked_ it-” he began, but Mary cut him off with a groan.

 

“Oh come on, she was _crazy_ about you for _such_ a long time. Then you marry her, then you humiliate her, and then she starts trying to move on, and you start trying to ruin it- Look, no matter how you look at it, you have rather bunged this thing up,” she said. John nodded.

 

“Besides that,” she added. “As I understand it, this is sort of her testing the waters. She isn't the dating type, she's the pick-one-and-stick-with-him type. She loves you, of course, but she needs to make sure you're the right choice for her. And until she's sure, she'll keep checking out other men. She's lonely, Sherlock, she has been for a long time.” Sherlock furrowed his brow, staring at nothing as he considered Mary's words.

 

“I need to prove myself worthy,” he said. His friends remained silent. He looked up, frowning a little. “How?” John shrugged.

 

“Figure out what makes her happy, I guess. Take her out loads. Movie dates, dinner dates, trips to the zoo... Find out what makes her smile, and then keep her smiling.” Mary smiled up at her husband, curling her fingers around his.

 

“Dating has never really been my area,” Sherlock muttered, still frowning.

 

“Well, do what you normally do when you're learning a new skill. Research. Watch romantic movies, read romance novels. And, most importantly, listen to Molly. If you've decided she's the one for you, and you want to prove that you can be the one for her, you need to listen to her,” Mary added. “Pay close attention to her reactions. If she seems happy, you're on the right track. If she seems uninterested or unsure, change your tactic. Okay?” Sherlock considered that for a moment, eyes darting back and forth over the wall as if he was reading words that weren't there. Mary clapped her hands and stood up, going over to him.

 

“Now then,” she said, straightening up his coat and brushing the hair off his forehead. “There's no sense in worrying about the concert and Cris tonight, there's nothing you can, or _should_ do about it at this point. Go home, get some sleep, and go see Molly in the morning. All right?” Sherlock blinked down at her, and nodded, turning to leave.

 

“And hey, Sherlock,” John called, moving to stand beside his wife. The detective paused at the doorway. “If you need help, let us know? Preferably before 11PM on a week night?” Sherlock threw a look over his shoulder, which somehow managed to be both apologetic and snarky, and swept out, shutting the door behind him. John and Mary turned to look at each other, both heaving big sighs. John set to putting the guns away, while Mary gave Rosie a last minute check. Thankfully, the commotion hadn't seemed to wake her at all. The pair climbed back into bed, where they lay on their backs, staring up at the ceiling.

 

“I'll tell you what, though,” John said thoughtfully after a moment. “This is definitely good practice for when she grows up.”

 

“What, and marries someone who loves her so she can solve a murder case?” Mary replied. John snorted.

 

“With Sherlock Holmes as a godfather? Who the hell knows _what_ influence he'll have.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go, only a few days later than I expected.
> 
> Firstly, I want to thank you all for your kind words and prayers for my Grandpa. He passed away last Wednesday evening, but really, it was probably the best thing that could have happened to him. He hated hospitals, and they stopped giving him tapioca the day before, it was inevitable, really. Anyway. That's just a little personal update.
> 
> SO! I wanted to get a little more into Sherlock's side of the situation here. I have a few chapters I'd like to go over and rewrite from his perspective, but I think I'll save those as a sort of bonus when this fic is done. Next chapter is basically going to be a collection of Sherlolly dates, I think a little fluff is in order here! 
> 
> I hope you liked this chapter, I tell you, John and Mary are really hard to write and I have no clue why. Let me know what you think, and thank you for bearing with me. :}


	24. Chapter 24

Molly had experienced many strange things in her life.

 

When she was young, a neighbour had offered her her first cigarette. Mrs Whitby, the crotchety old woman who lived across the street and refused to wear her spectacles, had seen two teenagers lighting up and had phoned the police. For police officers had shown up, and it had taken an hour for the situation to be dealt with.

 

Her last day of school, her teacher had shown up dressed as John Lennon to celebrate the beginning of summer. He spent half the day preaching peace and love, and had taken every opportunity to burst into song.

 

Hell, for a little less than a month, she had dated a psychopathic serial killer who was pretending to be a gay man pretending to be a straight man trying to date Molly so that he could spy on a detective and his flatmate.

 

None of this compared to the completely bizarre week Molly faced when Sherlock Holmes began watching romantic comedies.

 

On Monday, when Molly went in to work, she was alarmed to find that her name had been written off of the schedule for the full week. Frowning, she had left. But she shook of her confusion, rather pleased to have a bit of time off. In retrospect, she should probably have seen it as a warning sign. When she arrived home, she found an envelope on her kitchen table. Confused, she tore into it. It wasn't a huge shock to see Sherlock's spidery writing, after all, who else would break into her flat to deliver a letter. But it did come as a surprise to see what the letter said.

 

_My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;  
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;_

_If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;_

_If hair be wires, black wires grow on her head._

_I have seen roses damask'd, red and white;_

_But no such roses see I in her cheeks;_

_And in some perfumes is there more delight_

_Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks._

_I love to hear her speak, yet well I know_

_That music hath a far more pleasing sound;_

_I grant I never saw a goddess go;_

_My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:_

_And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare_

_As any she belied with false compare._

_-William Shakespeare, Sonnet 130_

 

Molly frowned. It was her favourite sonnet. It was hand-written in red ink. There were small flowers traced in the corner. As she brought the thick sheet of paper closer to see if the flowers had actually been drawn on, she caught a whiff of lavender. Red ink. Lavender scented paper. Flowers which had actually been properly drawn on.

 

What the hell?

 

As she pondered over the sonnet, her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out and squinted at the screen.

 

MAKE NO PLANS FOR THIS EVENING. I WILL COME TO COLLECT YOU AT 6:30 PM.

-SH

 

Molly blinked, and was about to text back to ask what was going on, when she got another text.

 

NO NEED TO DRESS UP.

-SH

 

A third came along with barely a pause.

 

DO NOT INQUIRE AS TO MY PLANS, I AM TOLD THAT MAINTAINING A LEVEL OF MYSTERY IS SEXY.

-SH

 

Molly laughed a little at that, shook her head, and headed to her room to unload her bag. She paused in the doorway. Her little lap table had been set up on her bed. On it was a large yellow glass vase, holding a positively massive bouquet of roses. There was also a pretty box, tied with a red ribbon. Molly opened it, revealing at least a dozen massive chocolate covered strawberries. Molly felt excitement bubbling up in her stomach, but it was almost drowned out by the buzzing of straight confusion in her head. Poetry. Flowers. Chocolates. A date later that evening. It sounded like every romance novel she had ever swooned over, and not at all like Sherlock. To be honest, she was a touch worried.

 

She ate the chocolates anyway.

 

At 6:30, there was a knock on the door. Molly gave herself a quick check in the mirror. She had been told not to dress up, but she couldn't resist the urge to spruce herself up a little. She had braided her hair and wrapped it around her head like a crown. She was wearing a soft purple shirt under her best cherry-patterned cardigan, with a pair of mustard-yellow trousers. She had even dabbed on a bit of lipstick. Taking a deep breath, she grabbed her bag and opened the door. Sherlock turned and looked her over, then gave a sharp little nod.

 

“We must leave now, or else we'll be late,” he announced before stepping back to let Molly out. Molly hesitated, but quickly stepped out and locked the door behind her. She turned toward Sherlock, and had a large daisy thrust into her face. It startled her, but she stood still as he tucked it into her hair, trying not to giggle like a schoolgirl. She didn't even mention how cross the neighbours would be about Sherlock stealing from their garden.

 

He ended up taking her to a cozy little restaurant, where Sherlock knew all of the staff. He ordered a starter of bruschetta, and recommended the tilapia, grilled in garic, lemon and white wine, and served on a bed of wild rice. Molly nodded with a grin, and Sherlock ordered for her, getting the mushroom risotto for himself. Very soon, their food was delivered, and a jolly man delivered a bottle of white wine, free of charge. They ate, and everything was very tasty indeed. As they ate, they chatted easily, talking about the day, and a number of cold cases Lestrade had given to Sherlock to keep him quiet. Sherlock had already solved two of the fifteen. After dinner, Sherlock ordered a massive banana split for them to share. Molly ate most of the strawberry ice cream, Sherlock ate most of the chocolate, and the vanilla was mostly left to melt. When they had eaten as much as they could, Sherlock bounded up, took Molly's hand, and dragged her out of the restaurant. Molly spluttered as she tried to keep up.

 

“Shouldn't we pay?” she asked, frowning and looking guiltily back at the restaurant. Sherlock shrugged.

 

“They owe me a favour. And we mustn't be late,” he said simply. Molly trotted along after him, bemused.

 

He took her to a cinema where they only showed old movies. They sat in the dark theatre watching Cat On A Hot Tin Roof and shared a large iced tea, hands almost touching. Molly kept risking little looks over at the detective. He seemed enthralled by the film, eyes focused, almost unblinking. He looked incredibly handsome. As Elizabeth Taylor declared that Maggie the cat was alive, Molly wrapped her little finger around Sherlock's. His eyes flickered down for only a moment, but he took her hand anyway, a finger tracing circles against her wrist. Molly could have sworn she saw him smile. When the film was done, Sherlock saw Molly home. Standing on her doorstep, he took her hand, and pressed it to his lips. Then he stood back, looking rather stern.

 

“I will come for you tomorrow afternoon at 2:00PM,” he said. And just like that, he was gone.

 

The next day, at 2:00Pm, Sherlock knocked on Molly's door. She answered it, and blinked hard at the sight of him standing in the sunlight, wearing a pair of black trousers and a loose white shirt, unbuttoned enough that she could see his collarbones. He in turn looked her outfit up and down, a black-and-white striped shirt with a white bow holding the neckline together in the back, paired with black trousers. He seemed to approve, and soon they were hailing a taxi. They went from cab to train to cab again, eventually ending outside of a quaint little vineyard. Molly stared at it open-mouthed. It was completely gorgeous, all tall trees and dappled sunlight. But the surprise didn't end there. Sherlock dragged her over to a small hill, where a woman met them with a beautiful horse. Molly gawked.

 

“Right,” said Sherlock, helping her up into the saddle, before climbing up behind her. “We've got Applesauce for one hour. That should make for a quick trot around the vineyard.” Molly found it difficult not to laugh, sitting on that horse. Occasionally she would look back at Sherlock, and see that, ridiculously, his shirt was actually billowing in the breeze.

 

“Why are we going so fast?” she asked at one point, her voice bouncing as the horse trotted beneath her. Sherlock was silent for a moment, and he pulled an affronted face.

 

“It's possible that, in my haste to book the horse, I neglected to inform the owners of the vineyard of my plans to borrow the grounds,” he said. “In fact, I do believe that is one of them running behind us.” It was rather spectacular, really, like a deleted scene from Sense and Sensibility, riding away from an angry landowner on a horse. When Sherlock deposited on her stoop that evening, he again kissed her hand, and told her to await his text. She went inside, feeling a bit bubbly, and completely confused. In a state of conflicting emotions, she brewed herself a large pot of tea, and toddled into the sitting room to watch something silly on the telly until she felt more sleepy.

 

At about 10:00PM, as Would I Lie To You cut to credits, she became aware of a sound. Some sort of music. She assumed it was to do with the program, and sat for a little while longer, deciding whether or not she wanted to start into Top Gear, or to crawl into bed with a book. With a small yawn, she clicked off the telly, and headed off toward her room. But the music kept playing. It seemed to be coming from outside. And, in fact, it seemed to be getting louder to closer she got to her bed. Molly frowned, and slowly padded over to the window, which was open a crack. She opened it the rest of the way, and leaned out into the cool night air.

 

Sherlock was standing outside her bedroom window. He was fully bundled in his coat and scarf, with a stern look on his face. And he was holding a big, old fashioned stereo over his head. It was blasting some familiar old song, something vaguely familiar. Molly blinked down at him. After a pause, she cleared her throat.

 

“What song is that?” she called down to him.

 

“In Your Eyes by Peter Gabriel,” he called back. Molly nodded, and listened a little while longer. Then-

 

“Where did you get that stereo?”

 

“Mrs Hudson.”

 

“Oh.” She listened some more. It was quite strange, Molly was fairly certain Sherlock was attempting to recreate a scene from some romantic old film, except that she had no idea if she was meant to do or say anything, and he was just standing there with a stereo over his head, staring at her. It was mildly uncomfortable, if she was being honest with herself. The moment was briefly interrupted by a neighbour sticking his head out of his own window.

 

“OI! Will you turn OFF that BLOODY racket?” he shouted. Sherlock scowled in his direction, then resumed staring. “I MEAN IT, YOU STUPID PRICK, TURN IT OFF!” Sherlock huffed and lowered the stereo, which continued wailing into the night.

 

“Do you mind? We're having a moment!” he shouted back.

 

“Y'WHAT?!”

 

“We are HAVING a MOMENT!”

 

“IF YOU DON'T SHUT THAT OFF RIGHT NOW, I'LL COME DOWN THERE AND GLASS YOU, YOU GREAT RUDDY TWAT!”

 

“IT'S NEARLY FINISHED ANYWAY,” Sherlock yelled, and lifted the stereo back over his head, muttering a little under his breath. There was the sound of a window slamming shut. Indeed, the song ended a moment or two later. Sherlock lowered the stereo, and squinted up at her. Molly felt compelled to say something.

 

“I have always rather liked John Cusack, you know,” she finally said. Sherlock considered this, and then nodded. Seeming satisfied, he hoisted the stereo back up onto one shoulder, and walked away just as Don't You Forget About Me began playing. He moved as if to punch the air, but was interrupted as a bottle sailed past and nearly hit him in the head.

 

“BUGGER OFF, YOU DICK BAG!” bellowed the neighbour. Sherlock began yelling back, and they quickly fell into a row, accompanied by hit songs from the '80s. Not entirely sure of what to do, Molly shut the window, turned off her light, and went to bed.

 

In the morning, Molly woke up with no small measure of caution, blinking at her phone. 10:24AM. No texts. She let out a great whoosh of breath. While Sherlock was being very sweet, to be sure, she still felt decidedly weird about his behaviour. She got up, showered, dressed, and began making vague plans for the day. Breakfast, check the news, maybe go do a bit of shopping later, make dinner, perhaps a film, and then bed. Lovely. No real solid plans, nothing to get in the way of Sherlock when (she was sure) he would show up later. As it happened, she had time to run out for some groceries, do a little cleaning, and even visit the library before Sherlock arrived. It was 4:13PM when the knock came at her door. Sherlock gave her a brief grin when she answered, before pushing past her and breezing down the hall toward her bedroom. With a small shake of her head, she followed. He had pulled her carpet bag out from under the bed, and was throwing random articles of clothing into it. A pair of knickers, a bra, a big, baggy t shirt, shorts, her bathing suit. He rummaged through her fancier things, and pulled out one of Molly's few dresses, a floaty little paisley thing that went to her knees which she'd found in a thrift shop. It had a big floppy bow on one shoulder, and had made her feel like a princess when she'd first tried it on. Then her mother had told her it made her look (“No offence, dear,”) rather like a psychedelic shepherdess. She hadn't worn it since. Sherlock tossed a pair of sandals in next, a hat, and a towel. Molly had a dreadful feeling she knew exactly what was coming when she was later being shoved into a cab.

 

An hour later, they were on a rocky bit of beach. The sun was trying to peek through the clouds, and Molly was wearing her modest bathing suit, wrapped in a towel, trying not to stare at Sherlock in his trunks. It was difficult, as they appeared to have been sewn out of a union flag.

 

“Swimming is not something I make a habit of. Mycroft sent me these one year for Christmas.” As he tossed his towel (bright red, with a massive picture of a corgi on it,) over his shoulder, Molly found herself resisting the urge to start humming Rule Britannia.

 

They walked along the beach, neither very interested in actually swimming. As the sun began to set, however, Sherlock started dragging Molly down along the water, and began kicking water at her. She, in turn, kicked water at him. Whenever a wave started rolling toward them, Sherlock would jog away from it, throwing exasperated looks over his shoulder as he saw Molly wasn't following suit. He dropped that idea, and fell into step with Molly, taking her hand. The sunset really was beautiful, all red and gold. The moment the sky started to turn purple, Sherlock grabbed Molly to drag her off again.

 

Half an hour later found them sitting in a small Italian restaurant, Molly fiddling with her dress and frowning at Sherlock. Before the waiter had even finished seating them, Sherlock had ordered a bottle of wine, and a big plate of spaghetti to share. Molly wasn't a fan of being ordered for, but aside from a raised eyebrow and a great sniff, she didn't argue it. They ate and talked. Molly was just taking a big, messy bite of pasta when Sherlock suddenly scooted his chair closer to her. He stabbed his fork into the end of a long, fat noodle which had come untwirled from her fork, and stuck it in his mouth. Molly froze, and for a strange moment they just stared at each other from opposite ends of a spaghetti noodle. Sherlock began sucking the noodle into his mouth, bringing himself closer to Molly, who sat there with her nose scrunched up, blushing, not sure if she was embarrassed or not. Like some bizarre scene from a movie, Sherlock ate his way up the noodle until, inevitably, his lips touched Molly's. It would have been romantic, if it weren't for the fact that Molly still had a mouth full of pasta. After the little kiss, Sherlock scooted his chair back into place, and just continued talking as normal. After dinner, they made the journey back to London.

 

Molly woke up the next morning with a stretch and a yawn, feeling very cozy in bed indeed. Although she couldn't actually remember getting home, or getting into bed, which made her frown a little. She was about to get up and go in search of breakfast, when her bedroom door opened. She pulled the blankets up to her chin, eyes wide, but it was just Sherlock. Sherlock, carrying a tray. A tray with a plate of food, a glass of orange juice, and a small vase with a daisy in it.

 

“Good morning,” he said, and placed the tray across Molly's lap.

 

“Good morning, Sherlock?” she replied, looking down at her plate. There were four slices of toast, two fried eggs, and some bacon which was just a little bit burnt. She blinked up at Sherlock.

 

“Sherlock, what- Um- What?” she asked, trying to voice her confusion. Sherlock frowned.

 

“I've made you breakfast in bed, I would have thought that much was obvious,” he said, waving a hand at the tray.

 

“Well, I can see that much, yeah, but, um, why have you made me breakfast in bed?” she asked.

 

“I think you'll find it is a perfectly acceptable romantic gesture, to prepare breakfast for a personal of interest,” he replied. Molly sighed, but felt too sleepy and hungry to argue. She just offered Sherlock a slice of toast, which he took, and dug in.

 

Molly didn't see Sherlock for the rest of the day. He didn't show up again that evening, or even the next morning. She was sort of pleased to have the day to herself. It was raining heavily outside, and she didn't feel like doing much other than sitting around with tea and a book. But, at 1:58PM, there was a loud knock at the door. With a sigh, she went to answer it. Sherlock stood on the stoop, soaking wet looking irritated. Before Molly had a chance to ask what was wrong, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her outside, into the torrential downpour. Molly gave a little shriek as she became instantly drenched, and slapped at Sherlock's hand.

 

“Sherlock, what do you think you're _doi_ -” She was cut off abruptly as Sherlock whirled around to face her, grabbed her by the shoulders, and pulled her in for a kiss. Molly's brain short-circuited. Sherlock's hands moved to cradle her face, and Molly grabbed at his arms to steady herself. He was kissing her with great fervour, running his tongue against hers, nipping at her lips. Molly would have found it arousing, were it not so very wet and chilly. His hands felt like ice against her skin. She pulled back hard enough that she nearly took a tumble, and glared at the detective.

 

“Sherlock, stop it!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing?” Sherlock scowled at her.

 

“I'm kissing you in the rain, or had you not noticed?” he replied, sounding grumpy. Molly sighed. Then she took Sherlock's hand and pulled him back toward her flat. Once inside, she told him to take off his shoes, and went to put on the kettle. A few minutes later they were sitting on the couch with big mugs of tea. Molly had her wet hair wrapped in a towel, and had swapped sopping clothes for her coziest bathrobe. Sherlock was wrapped in multiple blankets, his clothes having been thrown in the dryer. His hair was curling wetly on his forehead, and Molly thought he looked much too handsome to be allowed, given that she resembled a drowned rat. They drank their tea in silence for a while, until Molly couldn't hold back her curiosity anymore.

 

“Sherlock, what's been going on?” she asked, glancing at him over the top of her mug. Sherlock frowned at her.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“This past week. You cancelling work for me, the film, the horse thing, the stereo outside my window? Everything?” Sherlock's frown deepened. For a moment, he said nothing.

 

“I was attempting to woo you,” he said quietly after a while. He said it rather stiffly, sounding uncomfortable. Molly looked at him for a long moment. He looked vulnerable. She took a deep breath.

 

“Sherlock,” she began quietly, staring down into her cup. “You don't need to woo me, you wooed me ages ago without even noticing.” She looked up and caught his eye. “Getting me to like you was never the problem. I didn't need all this, the poem or the beach, I just needed to feel safe with you. I just needed to know that after everything that's happened, we could work together, you know?” She looked away again and fell silent.

 

“I've stopped seeing Cris, you know,” she said after a while. She became very acutely aware of him watching her. She shook her head. “It wasn't anything wrong with him, and he was very nice, we just didn't work. He reminded me too much of my brother, in a funny way.” Silence again. Molly drank her tea, staring at the floor, trying not to blush under Sherlock's gaze. After a minute, she turned to look at him.

 

“I think I would like to date you, if you wouldn't mind. I mean, I know you've been doing the romance thing, and I liked it, well, I mean, I didn't understand it, but it was sweet, and I appreciated it, so I think if I haven't turned you off of the idea, that dating would be... Nice,” she finished lamely. Sherlock said nothing. He just looked at her, his eyes scanning her face. But after a moment, his expression softened, and he gave her a small smile. Molly smiled back, feeling a wave of relief and something much like love rolling over her. She slowly reached out toward him, taking his hand. His fingers fit well in between hers. And so they sat in silence, drinking their tea, holding hands as they listened to the rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta-Da! The dates! At last! I know this took a long time to come out. I thought about doing the dates as their own separate chapters, but I really wanted to do them all together. I hope you liked it!
> 
> And just so you know, each of the romantic moments was inspired by a different film that Sherlock sat down to watch with a notepad and a pen. Points to anyone who can guess them all!
> 
> There are only going to be a couple of chapters left to come out, so thank you for staying with me this long. I really do appreciate each and every one of you. :} UNTIL NEXT TIME!


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Things are about to get a wee bit graphic.

“So you and Sherlock are...?”

 

“We're sort of dating now, yeah.”

 

Molly's mum squinted at her, looking confused.

 

“So you got married, then you got divorced, and now you're dating?”

 

“Um... Pretty much, yes.”

 

It looked as though she wasn't sure whether to be happy for her daughter, or concerned. It didn't help that Sherlock had been sitting on the couch beside her, drinking tea, before he received a text and jumped up saying something about what appeared to be a bear attack in Trafalgar Square. He had pressed a kiss to Molly's cheek, and bounded off, still holding his cup of tea, and Mrs Hooper had a sneaking suspicion that she would not see that cup ever again. But Molly was practically glowing, she looked so happy, and she was giving her mother such a hopeful look that all Mrs Hooper could say was, “Oh, well, that's lovely then, dear. I'll go get a fresh pot, shall I?”

 

Molly didn't end up staying much longer herself. The fresh pot had been out for fifteen minutes when she, too, received a text.

 

FORENSICS MOVING AT A SNAIL PACE, I NEED MY PATHOLOGIST. SH

 

Molly grinned and made her apologies, and sped off to Trafalgar Square. She and Sherlock had been dating for just about a month, and it seemed she was now spending 65% of her time at crime scenes. She didn't really mind though. It was often exhausting, and could be emotionally draining, but Molly had always found death fascinating, and after all, she helped with these sorts of cases all of the time. This way she was just examining the bodies a bit sooner.

 

When she arrived on the scene, Lestrade let her in immediately. She took a pair of gloves and made a beeline toward her boyfriend (as she called Sherlock in the privacy of her mind, where she wouldn't be mocked for it).He was standing in front of a fountain, where a man with short, bristly ginger hair was laying. His chest had indeed been slashed open, as though by massive claws. Without speaking, Sherlock, brow furrowed as he stared at the body, stepped out of the way to make room for her. Molly crouched down to get a closer look at the wounds. She frowned.

 

“Well, at a glance, these certainly do look like bear claw marks, but that doesn't make any sense, does it? I mean, surely someone would have noticed a great big bear in the middle of Trafalgar Square,” she said, frowning. She looked up at Sherlock, who was staring intensely at her.

 

“Yes, of course, even taking into account the incredible apathy and stupidity one encounters in crowds. No one has reported seeing a bear anywhere near here. It seems one moment everything was fine, and the next, a man falls, dead, seemingly attacked.” Sherlock allowed himself a little smirk, which did wonderful things to Molly's insides. “Isn't it wonderful?” he said. He sounded genuinely enthused, and even bounced a little on his heels. Molly gave him a look, but she couldn't help but smile as well.

 

They didn't leave the scene until quite late in the evening. The sun had been down for at least two hours when at last Molly unlocked the door to her flat, Sherlock trailing after with two small boxes of fish and chips. They both kicked off their shoes, and went through to the sitting room, flopping down onto the couch. Molly was feeling decidedly tired, but Sherlock looked alert as ever. He passed her one of the boxes, which she accepted with a grateful little smile. They ate in relative silence, Molly occasionally offering up a theory. She had been doing so for the past hour, and they were getting sillier and sillier as time went on.

 

“Maybe a person had big bear paws in their bag, and put them on like gloves, and then killed him.”

 

“Mm, the paws still would have drawn some measure of attention. And it is unlikely that your average person would have the strength necessary to create those wounds.”

 

Silence, textured with the sound of chewing.

 

“Maybe the bear was the man's friend, and he got slashed in the woods, but travelled far away so the bear wouldn't get in trouble.”

 

“There was no trail of blood at the scene indicating that he had moved, not to mention the fact that his organs would have spilled out the moment he stood up.”

 

Munch munch, chew chew.

 

“Maybe the man could _turn into_ a bear, and he had an itch, and he accidentally turned into his bear form, and scratched too hard.”

 

Sherlock sighed heavily, and looked down at Molly with raised eyebrows. She began giggling. And she found it very hard to stop. Pink and wheezing, she looked up at Sherlock, who was sitting still, a chip halfway to his mouth, staring at her with a small smile on his face. He looked torn between affection and exasperation. Molly finally took a deep breath, calming down, and leaned her head against his shoulder.

 

“Thank you for supper,” she said quietly after a while. He didn't reply, but a moment later, he took her hand, rubbing his thumb against her palm. She blushed a little. There was still a little part of her which felt surprised whenever he was affectionate with her, it caught her off guard every time. She looked up at Sherlock, who met her gaze. He lifted a hand to her face, very gently tracing the slope of her cheekbones, the tilt of her nose. He ran a finger over her lips, and she kissed it gently. She looked back up at Sherlock, and saw his eyes darken. Slowly, blushing like a schoolgirl, she sat up to face him. The hand on her cheek moved to cup the back of her head, his fingers resting against the base of her braid. He leaned down, and pressed his lips against hers. Molly let out a small happy noise, kissing him back with great enthusiasm. Sherlock started, lurching back momentarily, but quickly wrapped his arms around Molly, pulling her into his lap, and kissing her hard enough that Molly's breath caught.

 

The air in the room seemed to get thicker. Sherlock pulled back just long enough to give Molly a look, and she bit her lip, considering. Except for a couple of small kisses and the occasional cuddle, they hadn't really developed the physical side of their relationship yet. Molly kept telling herself that she was waiting for the right moment. Looking into his eyes, with moonlight casting patterns on the floor and chips all over her coffee table, she knew that there would be more romantic evenings, there would be music and roses, and that they wouldn't smell like a crime scene. And then she bit her lip, and nodded.

 

Sherlock moved quickly, which took Molly by surprise. She gave a little whoop of shock as she was suddenly hoisted into the air, her knees still hooked around Sherlock's hips, Sherlock supporting her bottom with one arm.

 

“Where?” he asked, almost sternly.

 

“Bedroom,” she replied with a jerk of her head. He didn't even pause to respond, just set his jaw and started for the bedroom, Molly bouncing on his hip with each step. She was trying not to giggle, but part of her mind was just chuffed at being carried by a tall person. As soon as they were in her room, Sherlock made a beeline for the bed, and set her down hard on it, getting a little “-ooph” in response. Before she had time to think, Sherlock was sinking to his knees in front of her, his hands holding tightly to her waist, his eyes staring intently into her own.

 

“Are you certain that you are ready?” he asked. “If you are not, I need to know now.” Molly stared back at him, feeling completely overwhelmed by how much she loved the man in front of her. With a tiny smile, she leaned forward and pulled off his suit jacket, nodding.

 

“I'm sure. I'm ready,” she said, feeling her heart thudding madly against her ribcage. Sherlock gazed at her for a moment longer, then leaned in, kissing her for all he was worth. His soft lips moved against hers, and Molly found herself almost smiling at the familiar taste of peppermint. She nipped gently at his lower lip, and Sherlock made a deep rumbling sound against her mouth in response. She did it again, and he clutched hard at her hips, starting to roll her back onto the bed. He pushed her down, crawling up from his spot on the floor, lips never leaving her skin. He trailed kisses down the side of her neck before sucking gently at the spot where neck meets shoulder, making Molly gasp and slide her hands up into his hair. She gently ran her nails against his scalp. Sherlock's body twitched against hers in response, and as she bit his lip again, he rolled his hips against her, both of them moaning at the friction. Molly's fingers trembled slightly as she tried to undo the buttons on Sherlock's shirt, as they suddenly became the most frustrating puzzle in the world. He grunted impatiently and reared back, tearing the shirt right off, sending buttons clattering to the floor. Molly felt her mind go blank as she looked at him, shirt off and staring at her as thought he wanted to consume her. Without thinking, she began unbuttoning her cardigan, throwing it onto the floor. Sherlock watched hungrily, and he was very quickly on top of her again, one hand sliding up under her skirt as he tried to remove it while still pinning her down, the other trying to remove his trousers. With some careful manoeuvring, they were soon down to their knickers, Sherlock getting increasingly frustrated as he struggled with the clasp of Molly's bra. Molly sat up and pulled the offending article off, throwing it to the floor.

 

Sherlock stared at her for a long moment, and Molly stared back, blushing. She was reminded of that day, so long ago, when Sherlock had walked in on her getting dressed. And now, here she was again, naked and blushing in front of Sherlock Holmes. And he was sitting there on her bed, the moonlight making his pale skin glow, dark curls falling against his forehead, mouth coloured by frantic kisses and hanging open as he gazed upon her. He was almost completely still, but Molly swore she could just see his pulse jumping in his throat. Suddenly shy, she got onto her knees in front of him, and kissed him tenderly. She kissed his mouth, and his cheek, and his throat, surprised and delighted as he gave a small shiver. He was breathing hard. Every now and then he would make the most delicious sounds, deep moans, small gasps, and Molly took note of what it was that got such gorgeous reactions. A kiss on the neck. A little bite to his earlobe. As she kissed him and tasted his skin, his hands roamed over her body. His skin was hot, and as his palms passed over her hips, she found herself arching into him. He kissed her throat, and down to her breasts. Molly moaned, and gasped as he sucked her nipple into his mouth, running his tongue over her sensitive skin. His fingers were slipping under the elastic of her knickers at the swell of her hip, gently rubbing the flesh there. Molly was practically shaking in anticipation. She ran her hands over Sherlock's shoulders, feeling the muscles moving under the skin, but froze suddenly as his fingers brushed against her core. She opened her mouth to moan, but her breath caught as his fingers moved, gently sliding against her. She licked her lips, looking down to see that he was watching her, eyes fixed on her face. She bit her lip, and found her breath again as his thumb parted her folds, moving in small circles until he found her clit. Molly gave a great gasping moan, feeling her entire body tense as he touched her, biting her lip hard as he pressed one long finger into her. He began slowly pushing up further, before pulling back, pushing in again, slowly pumping his finger into her, and she began pushing back against him. He added a second finger, and Molly felt a hard ache deep inside her as she gave a low moan. She was thrusting into his hand, feeling almost embarrassed by how close she was already.

 

All the while, Sherlock watched her, his lips parted, breathing heavily as he took in her reactions. He was so caught up in watching her, he was rather distracted from her hands, which had been roaming over his shoulders and his chest, slowly trailing further and further down. As Molly ran her fingers over the hard outline of his erection, Sherlock froze, eyes widening marginally. Molly bit her lip, feeling hot, almost itchy as she began slowly tracing the outline of his cock. A voice in the back of her mind whispered that she hadn't imagined it would be so thick. That, like Sherlock, it should be long and slender. The voice murmured that it ruined the symmetry of his body. Molly grinned. Somehow, she didn't mind so much. As she curved her hand around him, rubbing against his length, Sherlock went very still, fingers halting inside of her, and he leaned toward her, head tilting to one side. Molly just gazed at him. The muscles in his body were all tensed, and there was a slightly vacant, confused look in his eyes as he stared at her. Molly wondered briefly if his mouth felt as dry as hers did, and she found herself straightening up to press a slow kiss against his throat. It seemed to break the spell Sherlock was under. He gave a great growling moan, very suddenly lunging forward, pushing Molly down underneath him with his free hand.

 

“Protection?” he asked in a thick voice right beside Molly's ear as he kissed feverishly along her neck.

 

“Can't use condoms,” she managed to gasp back. “I get allergic- oh god- I get a rash, I do injections, birth control injections, and I'm clean, got tes- _Jesus_ \- I got tested three weeks ago.” Sherlock ran his tongue against the curve of her ear, and Molly bucked hard against his hips. He made a low sound, his hands both moving fast. He sat up a little to pull down Molly's pants, as he resumed thrusting his fingers into her, his thumb dancing circles around her clit. As he threw her knickers over the side of the bed, he pulled back his hand, just long enough to pull off his own pants. For a very short moment, they just looked at each other, both a bit pink in the face. Then Sherlock lowered himself onto Molly, one hand grasping her hip, and he kissed her deeply as he slowly pushed into her. Molly was gasping and panting against his mouth. Sherlock was a decidedly tight fit, and when he was finally all the way in, Molly grabbed his hips, holding them still as she tried to get used to the feeling. When she was ready, she let out a big, shaky breath, and nodded. Slowly, Sherlock slid out, almost all the way, and then back in again. Molly shuddered, eyes rolling back a little as she let out a soft moan. God, it had been ages. She had missed this. She looked up at Sherlock, who had a strange look on his face. His jaw was set. Molly realized that it was probably hard for him to be going so slowly. She ran her hands up and down his back, feeling the tightly coiled muscles, and she licked her lips.

 

“More please, Sherlock,” she said, tilting her hips up to meet him. Sherlock nodded, and began thrusting more quickly, the hand tightening at her hip. He pressed his face into the side of her neck, and she could hear him breathing hard in her ear. Molly gasped and moaned as she tried to thrust up to meet him, matching his pace. She could feel tension building in her core, and she dug her nails into Sherlock's back. Sherlock moaned low in his throat, and began thrusting harder. His hands slid under Molly's bum, and he pulled her in tighter, kissing her collarbones. Molly flung her arms out to either side, clutching at her bed, holding on for dear life as Sherlock began thrusting, quite hard now, bringing her closer and closer to the edge. Colours were blurring, and she was vaguely aware that she was saying his name over and over again. Sherlock was moaning too, his voice a low hum that seemed to fill the room. He grabbed her legs and hitched them up around his waist, angling her hips upward, and she latched on to him like her life depended on it. Sherlock grabbed hold of her bed frame, and seemed to lose control, thrusting hard, driving into Molly over and over, moving faster and faster. Molly threw back her head, mouth opening wide in a silent scream as she came, the force of her orgasm taking her by surprise. Lights dimmed in her eyes, and for a moment the world went dark and quiet. When she opened her eyes at last, it was in time to see Sherlock's face go slack as his own orgasm broke, his hips jolting irregularly. He went still, his breathing ragged, sweat gleaming on his brow. She became aware of moisture on her tummy, and gave a relaxed sigh, running a shaking hand through her hair. Her eyes closed again as she focused on slowing her breathing. Something was rubbing on her stomach, and she slitted her eyes open to see Sherlock gently cleaning her up with a tissue. Molly smiled. It was an oddly touching gesture from him. After cleaning himself up as well and disposing of the tissues, Sherlock sank down into the bed beside her, his eyes already shut. He slung an arm around Molly's waist and pulled her back against him, his chest to her back. Molly giggled a little and snuggled down against him, tracing little patterns onto the back of his hand. They stayed like that for a while, quiet and calm in the moonlight.

 

“You're allergic to condoms?” Sherlock asked groggily from behind her. Molly smiled; he sounded sleepy.

 

“I think so. I mean, I've not been properly tested, but I get hives and a rash when I use them. Well, most of them anyway. The ones made of lambskin were actually fine, but I felt really weird about using the, to be honest. I know that's silly, but...” she trailed off with a little shrug. “I've just been doing the birth control injections, you get one done every three months. It works for me.” Sherlock gave a little grunt of acknowledgement. They were quiet again for a while.

 

“Sherlock?”

 

“Mmm?”

 

“Have you- I mean, well, you don't need to answer this, um, but-”

 

“I lost my virginity twenty three days before my thirtieth birthday to a friend of John's. I don't believe he knows, so I would prefer it if you would kindly refrain from mentioning it around him, you know how he can be.” Molly blinked at that, and rolled over so she could face him.

 

“And since then?” she asked almost shyly. He gave her a long look.

 

“Since then, I have slept with one other woman. Janine. It was for a case,” he said simply. Molly frowned. She had, of course, heard all about _that_ case. The one which had resulted in Sherlock getting a bullet pulled from his chest. She knew that Sherlock had been faking a relationship with the woman, but somehow she had assumed they wouldn't have slept together. Sherlock arched a brow at her, and Molly shook her head a little.

 

“So I'm only the third woman you've slept with?” she asked slowly. Sherlock gave a short nod of his head. Molly nodded back thoughtfully. Sherlock was frowning.

 

“Do you ask because I seem... Inexperienced?” he asked. Molly's eyes widened.

 

“Oh, no! No, not at all! Actually, the opposite, you were really, really good,” she said, blushing a little. Sherlock considered this.

 

“Better than Tom?” he asked, trying to sound nonchalant. Molly pressed her lips together to keep herself from smiling.

 

“Much better than Tom. He was sort of, um- Sort of lazy, actually. I had to do a lot of the work. It wasn't the best,” she admitted awkwardly. Sherlock nodded, looking a little smug. Molly blinked at him with a sleepy smile. He smiled back at her, tenderly brushing hair away from her face. He ran his fingers through her hair, working out the tangles. It felt lovely, and it wasn't long before Molly drifted off to sleep, a smile still on her face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are at last!
> 
> I tell you, this was both lovely and awful to try to write. I haven't written a love scene in a long while, and I really wanted to get this one right. So please feel free to comment, let me know if you liked it! Thank you all for being patient with me, I really appreciate it. Thanks!


	26. Chapter 26

The next morning was complete bliss for Molly. She woke up slowly, almost lazily, letting the sleep roll off of her, enjoying the lilting birdsong just past her window. Sherlock had an arm draped around her waist, and as she carefully turned to face him, his eyes opened. They didn't speak, just smiled slowly at one another. Molly excused herself to take a long shower, enjoying the way all her muscles seemed a little softer than usual, the way her body was gently aching after the activity of the night before. The hot water poured over her luxuriously, and she scrubbed herself down with soap, breathing in the cozy, familiar scent of it. When she left the bathroom, wrapped in a big, fluffy towel, hair dripping down her back, Sherlock met her in the hallway with a cup of tea and a plate of toast with jam. Molly couldn't help but grin, and she pressed a small kiss to his lips as she thanked him. She offered him use of her shower, which he declined, saying he much preferred to use his own, and after a short breakfast together, he left, saying he needed to get to work. Molly was all smiles as he kissed her at the door, one hand cupping her cheek. It felt incredibly domestic, and as Molly closed and locked the door behind him, she decided that she had never been happier. Not once, not on any other morning with any other man.

 

But then, why did something feel... Off?

 

Molly went about her morning business, brushing her teeth, frowning at the frizzy curls that high humidity had landed her with, checking emails. She had the day off, so she settled herself in for a long day of pyjamas and bad telly. Maybe a chat on the phone with mum. Or maybe a nap. Despite waking up slowly, she felt sort of groggy, as though she hadn't gotten enough sleep. And it was only just past 7AM, she could easily spare a couple hours for resting. But as she padded back to her room, she found herself frowning. Something was niggling in her brain. She felt a bit grumpy, truth be told. And she felt she probably knew what it was. With a heavy sigh and a soft curse at her own foolishness, Molly grabbed her laptop, bringing it to bed with her, and began flicking through the pictures from John and Mary's wedding. She spent more time than she cared to think about squinting at the faces of John's friends, trying to remember who she had spoken to. A bridesmaid with curly blonde hair, a single mother with a young son, the giggly woman in the green dress who had sat at Molly's table... She paused on a photo of Janine, and zoomed in with a frown. She was pretty. The shade of purple she was wearing flattered her. She was curvier than Molly, with a fuller smile and dark hair. There was a look of mischief in her eyes. Molly felt herself deflate a little, and crawled out of bed to go stand in front of a mirror.

 

Thankfully, in the days following her finishing school, Molly had begun to appreciate the body she had been given. It was short, and there wasn't much of it, but it was hers. Now, though, she was feeling decidedly self-conscious. Small breasts and lips, that's what Sherlock had said. More than once, actually. Hips that were wider than she liked, resulting in a mad assortment of baggy, slouchy pants. Thin limbs. Big eyes. Long hair, which was currently parted down the middle and doing a spot-on impression of a mop head. Molly gave a great sigh, and returned to bed, pulling the blankets up high. She had her own set of good looks, she knew that. Her mum had always said she looked like a fairy, straight out of the magic woods. A friend had once described her as 'elfin'. And she knew that Sherlock had come to like her looks. But staring at the grinning Janine, Molly couldn't help but feel like it must be nice to be more traditionally attractive. And Sherlock had slept with her.

 

With another big sigh, she shut her computer and set it aside, pulling her knees up to her chest. There were some decidedly negative feelings bubbling away in her stomach. Jealousy, confusion, irritation, jealousy... But there was something else, something she couldn't put her finger on. Still frowning, Molly curled up to take her nap.

 

It wasn't till one nap, two phone calls with her mum (first one to chat, second one to double check a recipe measurement), three cups of tea, and half the baking time of toad in a hole later when Molly realized what was sticking in her mind. Doubt. It was doubt. She sat down to think, allowing her mind to just bump along the train of thought.

 

Lost his virginity to a friend of John just before Sherlock's thirtieth birthday? That would have been three years ago, not quite a year after John and Sherlock had moved in to 221B. Molly remembered the party. If it could be called that. Mrs Hudson, John, Mike, Lestrade and Molly herself, perched awkwardly around the sitting room, having small pieces of a dry Victoria sponge as Sherlock sulked in his room about being 'subjected to childish absurdities'. After an hour of small talk, John had coaxed Sherlock out of his room at last, when a man dressed as a baby with a balloon and a flower had arrived at the door, with a message from Mycroft that he was 'so sorry to be missing ickle Sherlock's birthday party, but maybe, if he is very good, Sherlock might be treated to a trip to the zoo.' The baby-man had then started singing Happy Birthday, and Sherlock had locked himself away for the rest of the day. It hadn't been especially successful.

 

 

But that was something that struck her as odd, that Sherlock should have lost his virginity to a friend of John's a year after his return from Afghanistan, during a time in which, as John himself had admitted, he had few female friends and was trying his hardest to sleep with any woman he came across, which had driven away most, if not all of them. And during that time, Sherlock was still in a state of isolation, though he had let John in. He was still playing the part of the sociopath. It had taken another year and a half for Molly to even begin to make a place in the detective's life. It didn't line up at all, the idea of Sherlock finding a friend of John's to sleep with, not only because there probably weren't any friends of John's available, but also because sex most likely just wouldn't have been something Sherlock would have been wanting at the time. And also, Sherlock, for all his strong points, was a bit of a misogynist. Molly had noticed that fairly quickly, that he was always a little bit too surprised when a woman proved herself to be intelligent, trustworthy, or really anything other than trouble. So unless Sherlock had gone through a stage of being interested in men- But no, when Sherlock had talked about it, he had said Janine was 'one other _woman_ ' he had slept with. It wasn't like Sherlock to be ashamed of many choices he had made, why would he leave out such a detail, much less try to hide it? It didn't make sense at all.

 

And then there was Janine. Molly had sort of caught on to the fact that Sherlock was seeing someone in the months following John and Mary's wedding. It wasn't like some huge secret or anything, there had been texts, Sherlock ducking out of an autopsy for a quick bite with a “friend”, flowers, even a rather gooey note that had gotten mixed in with case notes he had been sharing with her. Molly had been upset, and made the decision to try to not think of it, so she hadn't asked any questions. Now, she rather wished that she had. Of course, it had all come out in the end, that Sherlock had been trying to use Janine to get close to some horrible person. There had been articles in the paper and everything. Sherlock himself had shared the facts of the case with Molly, though Molly had gotten the impression that he was mostly trying to ease her mind about the fact that he had been tied up in a murder. While he talked about it, he had made some mention of his romancing Janine, and any time he had mentioned her, even just saying her _name_ , he had pulled a bit of a face, a little scowl. Any stories about her he had shared with some measure of disdain. It was as though he didn't care for her much at all. Would Sherlock really have bedded someone he didn't like for a case? True, he could go incredibly far in the course of his work, but to have sex with someone who hadn't had to go through the obstacle course of getting close to Sherlock Holmes?

 

Molly spent the rest of the day brooding a little. She ate almost an entire pan of toad in a whole by herself, watched movies, and looked at a cat rescue website. Close to dinner time, she even started looking through old school notes, looking at diagrams and charts, basking in the memory of being the best in her class.

 

At exactly 7PM, there was a knock at her door. Molly went to answer it, and found Sherlock on the stoop, holding a big, bulging paper bag and several files.

 

“I wasn't sure if you'd eaten yet,” he said, giving the bag a little shake. Molly smiled a little and let him in. It wasn't long before her table was laid out with egg rolls, spring rolls, chicken fried rice, sweet and sour pork, fat noodles with strips of beef, vegetables in a savoury sauce, and sweet little apple dumplings. In what Molly was realizing was typical Sherlock style, the detective took small portions of the main courses, but claimed most of the apple dumplings for himself. While he often forgot to eat throughout the day, he had a tendency to inhale his sweets. They ate in silence, Sherlock occasionally muttering at the case notes he had collected. Molly, for her part, grabbed a book to read while she ate, but it stayed shut on her lap as she chewed, lost in thought. She was halfway through her noodles before they spoke.

 

“You're quiet this evening,” Sherlock remarked, not looking up from the file. “Are you all right?”  
  


“Mm? Oh! Oh, yes, yes, I'm fine,” said Molly quickly, flashing Sherlock a big smile. He turned with a frown. His eyes travelled over her, taking note of the fluffy hair and tense smile, and that little crease that hadn't quite faded from between her brows.

 

“I thought we had agreed that we should not claim to be fine when we are obviously not,” he said after a moment. Molly blinked, looking over at him. If it were anyone else, she would be surprised at him remembering their talk from so long ago, when she told him he looked sad, and promised her help if ever he needed it. But then again, this was Sherlock. She sighed, and then put down her plate, turning to face him head on.

 

“It's just- I mean, you don't need to explain yourself, I want you to know, I understand that you like your privacy, so I don't want to seem like I'm prying-”

 

“Molly.”

 

“Yes, I know, I'm sorry, but... Just...” she waved her hands around awkwardly, making strange noises as she tried to find the right words.

 

“I've been thinking, um, sort of a lot, about what you said. Last night. After we had sex. About the other two ladies you've had sex with.”

 

A pause.

 

“Are you feeling jealous? I need hardly remind you that you yourself have had other sexual partners, such as they were-”

 

“What? Sherlock, no, I-”

 

“And for that matter, the notion that losing your virginity will make sex with anyone else less special and/or poignant is one entirely based on society's continued efforts to sensationalize the act of sex and to shame those who-”

 

“Oh no, no no no! Not that, not at all. Well, I mean, um... Well, no I meant more about what you said about the who and the when, you see. It's just... It doesn't make sense.” Sherlock just gazed at Molly, face lacking any sort of emotion.

 

“What doesn't make sense?” he asked.

 

“Well, I mean, you said that you lost your virginity to John's friend before you turned thirty, but considering when your thirtieth birthday was, and what John's social life was like, I mean, who could you have slept with? He didn't _have_ any lady friends, or at least not any he wasn't trying to sleep with, and I don't think you would have done anything with someone he was interested in, I mean, you two were friends by then.” Sherlock blinked.

 

“And what else?”

 

“Well, just, and I know that this sounds silly, but I sort of got the impression that you didn't really _like_ Janine.”

 

“There was no issue in me disliking her, she was a likeable woman. I merely hold no respect or affection for her.”

 

“Yes, right. And I just can't see how you two could have had sex if you felt that way about her, even if it was for a case, you know?”

 

Sherlock didn't say anything for a long moment. He stared down at the bit of sofa separating them, not even blinking. He just went very still. Molly sat watching him, chewing on her lip. It was a well known fact that Sherlock could react badly to being questioned. But after a moment, he spoke.

 

“Well done, Molly, I see that your time spent with me has resulted in the development of your deduction skills.” He looked up at Molly, and she was surprised to see that, beneath the blank mask, he looked rather uncomfortable.

 

“It is possible that I may not have been entirely honest with you,” he said slowly, biting the words out as if they were hard to say. “I am... Sorry. For doing so. The question you posed me was a simple one, and the truth would have been sufficient. However, I am not one who admits his weaknesses easily.” Molly sat very still. She felt, not for the first time, that helping Sherlock work through his emotions was somewhat like helping a wounded animal. She took care to keep her voice calm and low as she spoke.

 

“What is the truth, then, Sherlock? If you feel comfortable with telling me, I will _completely_ understand if you don't,” she said. Sherlock considered this for a moment, and then shook his head.

 

“You have been truthful with me since the day we met, Molly Hooper. You deserve the same treatment in return. I slept with Janine, in the most literal sense. While she was unwittingly helping me to track Magnussen, there were nights when she shared my bed, or I shared hers. And granted, there were times when we became physically intimate, sharing kisses, cuddling-” he spat the words out, looking more than a little irritated by the memory. “-whatever displays of affection were required to gain her trust in my feelings. However, we never went further than that. I told her that I was waiting until marriage. She did not press the matter. Well, not very much.” Molly absorbed this information, and nodded slowly.

 

“And the friend of John's?” she asked softly, peering up at the detective, who had once again averted his eyes.

 

“To say that she was a friend of John's is somewhat misleading, as John has never met her.”

 

“...Right?”

 

“And in fact, it happened some time after my thirtieth birthday.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“In fact, it happened shortly after I committed suicide.” Molly swallowed, but nodded, having a dreadful feeling that she knew where this was going. Sherlock gave a great sigh, frowning, fingers twitching, and looking a bit like he was about to jump up, maybe leave. But Molly reached over and took his hand, giving his fingers a gentle squeeze. Sherlock tensed, and turned to look at her.

 

“Do you remember the night I called you?”

 

Molly nodded, it was a difficult night to forget. It had been a horribly emotional couple of weeks since she had helped the great detective fake his own death. John had barely left his flat, and the couple of times Molly had gone to see him, she ended up leaving with tears streaming down her face at the sight of the empty shell of the once colourful Doctor Watson. She made him tea which he hardly touched, and had murmured conversations with a weepy Mrs Hudson about the sleeping pills he kept next to his chair. More often than not, these chats left her propping Mrs Hudson up as the older woman wept. It had been the worst time of Molly's life, seeing so many of her friends in so much pain, and knowing that she could ease that pain, tell them what was going on, bring back their smiles, but that she couldn't do it without breaking her promise and jeopardizing the safety of all those she loved. Sherlock had been specific. Keep him secret. Don't try to look for him yourself. Mourning is necessary, imperative. No matter what, keep any knowledge of Sherlock being alive far away from friends and loved ones, delete texts, erase phone records, leave no clues behind.

 

And then, one evening, after a long, tense autopsy, she had gone into the locker room at Bart's, retrieved her phone from the pocket of her cardigan, and found that she had a message from an unrecognised number. Playing it back, she nearly had a heart attack.

 

“Molly, Mollyyy, Moooolly. Molly HOOOOper. Molly, are you- Are you there, Molly? Molly, it's me, Sh- shhhhh, don't tell anyone, you mustn't tell anyone Molly, Molly I'm calling you, to- I need- don't cry little Molly, it's Sherlo- oh, bugg-” The message had abruptly, cutting off the slurred (and highly recognizable) voice. Molly had clapped a hand to her mouth, trying not to hyperventilate, and had biked home as quickly as possible, terrified that she was being followed, or that the call would be traced somehow. And what about Sherlock, what if he was in trouble? When she reached her flat, Molly had run inside, and immediately gone into her bathroom, ran water, turned on a fan, locked the door, and sat in a tense little ball in the corner, and listened to the message again. This time, she was able to pick out sounds of ice, or glass, tinkling in the background. She spent what felt like hours considering her options, her curiosity won out, and she hit the redial button, shaking like a leaf. It rang three times. Then-

 

“Yes, who is this?” a cool voice answered. A woman's voice. Molly froze up, completely unsure of what to say. “Hello? Who is calling?”

 

“I, uhm... Hello? Hi, yes, hello, um, my name is Molly Hoo- Hubert. Molly Hubert. Hello,” she said in a hoarse whisper. She was met with a long, crackling silence.

 

“Hello, would this be Miss Hooper?” came a voice at last, though not the voice from before. It was a smooth, male voice, a voice which seemed vaguely familiar.

 

“I- Yes, hello, I'm Miss Hooper, I, um- I got a call from this number, about two hours ago?”

 

“Don't fret, Miss Hooper. There was a slight error.” The voice went soft for a moment. “He is safe, Miss Hooper. Please do not contact us again.” There was a gentle click in her ear, and the call ended. Molly sat there, gaping at nothing, phone still pressed to her ear. She sat there for ages. And then she had burst into hot, angry tears, and nearly thrown her phone against the wall. All the talk of secrecy, of how important this all was, of how she had to be patient and follow his rules, and he nearly risked it all with, what, a drunk dial? She had almost quit right then, and it had taken a long time for her to forgive Sherlock for being so inconsiderate.

 

He was staring at her, watching her face as she pulled the memories to the surface.

 

“As was likely evident in my message, I was not handling the situation as well as I had expected to. Mycroft took me in for the duration of my stay in the country, and I was mourning the loss of my own life. In particular, I was grieving over the knowledge that I would need to leave my friends behind. John, Mrs Hudson, you, even Lestrade. Over the years, the four of you have become a crutch which I do not care to do without. A safety blanket. I was not adjusting well to the thought of living without you. And so, as my brother was busy ensuring my safe journey out of London, I located his liquor cabinet and made myself at home. Phoning you was, admittedly, a lapse in judgement. It was a drunken man attempting to find a source of comfort. Mycroft discovered me, and the plan for my relocation was sent into immediate action. My brother sobered me up, and sent me off to Germany.” Sherlock's face darkened, and Molly steeled herself for the worst.

 

“I had not been in Germany since the days when my drug habit was at its peak. My avoidance of the country had been intentional, as I had wanted to avoid the memories, the potential triggers. Of course, this was not information that I had shared with my brother. I found myself in Germany, feeling rather... Well. It did not take me very long to reach out to my old contacts. I suffered a relapse. And I made the grave mistake which many do when revisiting past addictions. I did not give my body time to adjust to the drugs, slowly upping my dosage. Rather, I made the immediate leap to the amount I had been used to before. There are days that I cannot remember, days when everything was merely a blur of colours and loud voices. When the drugs wore off, I found myself in an abandoned warehouse with fourteen other addicts, one of whom was a young woman, Gemma. She had a son, Otto, who had taken to calling me Vater. I was eventually informed that Gemma was a prostituierte, who would tell her son that each client was a relative of theirs. Because I had slept with her for free, she told him that I was his father.” Sherlock went silent for a moment, a troubled look on his face. Molly felt completely overwhelmed, so she sat there quietly, her brow furrowed as she watched him. The detective cleared his throat.

 

“I was repulsed by my actions, and so I left Germany, travelling instead to Sweden. It was there that my brother lost track of my whereabouts. When I returned, I had him send a team to search for Gemma and Otto, in an attempt to help them. It would seem as though Gemma died a year after I left, though I confess I don't know what she died of. Otto has since been adopted by a family in the Netherlands. I believe Mycroft's people keep an eye out for him, a sentimental gesture, but one which I do appreciate.”

 

Sherlock had very clearly finished speaking, but Molly couldn't think of anything to say. She sat there in a sort of shocked silence, trying to process the frankly overwhelming bit of information. After a little while, Sherlock turned fully to look at her, brow furrowed.

 

“Molly.” Molly looked up at him, making a strange noise in the back of her throat. She coughed, shook her head, and took a deep breath.

 

“Well, um. Wow. That is certainly- I mean, I don't judge you at all, obviously, it was a bad time for everyone really, we all made choices, but that is... That is a lot to take in,” she said. Sherlock nodded, looking away. Molly was quiet for a moment longer, and then frowned.

 

“Sherlock?”

 

“Mm?”

 

“...Why didn't you tell me all this before, when we were talking?” Sherlock frowned, but didn't turn to face her, staring instead into the rice on his plate.

 

“I received word the other day from a concerned party,” he said slowly, frown deepening. “When my brother found me and brought me back from the dead, there was a certain amount of information he requested. I told him bits and pieces, and, of course, he took them and pieced together my entire time abroad to annoy me, with help from his contacts and spies. When he heard that you and I had begun seeing each other, he suggested to me that my time away might put you off. I, of course, told him exactly what he could do with his advice. However, on the last case I helped Lestrade with, the topic of my time in Germany came up. He also seemed to believe that my sexual history might in fact send you screaming.” Molly looked at Sherlock, brows raised. The detective was still staring at his plate, his face blank. But Molly could practically feel the tension radiating from him. His muscles were tensed, his knuckles were white, and she could see his leg twitching a little. And it occurred to her how difficult this had been for him to share. Not just because he felt regret over his past actions, but because he had been told that she would drop him if she knew the truth. Molly frowned, making a mental note to have a very serious chat with Greg. And then, she scooted closer to Sherlock, so that their hips were almost touching. Sherlock looked at her, white lips pressed firmly together.

 

“Sherlock, I am going to kiss you now, if that's okay with you,” she said. Sherlock frowned, but turned to face her properly. With a small smile, Molly leaned in and kissed him tenderly, and then reached up to brush some of the hair out of his eyes.

 

“You know, I lost my virginity to a boy I liked when I was twenty. We had sex in the back of his car at 3:00 in the morning, and he told me to keep my top on in case anyone walked by. Toward the end of it, he called me Mary, and pushed me into the gear shift. I had a bruise on my forehead for ages after,” she said. Sherlock blinked at her, and then frowned. She grinned, and snuggled in close to him, resting her head on his shoulder. Sherlock sighed, the tension finally fading a little.

 

“So... So you don't actually remember your first time?” Molly asked meekly after a moment.

 

“Fortunately not,” Sherlock replied. Molly made a little humming sound, and nodded. A second later, Sherlock cleared his throat, twitching his fingers toward hers. Molly grinned and took his hand.

 

“Are you sad that you don't remember it? I mean, sex for the first time, that can be a pretty big deal to some people,” she said. Sherlock scoffed.

 

“You are asking me if I regret my inability to remember a drug-fuelled session of coupling with a prostitute, based on the fact that our culture sensationalizes the concept of the 'loss of innocence', taking a typically boring and/or disappointing act and turning it into a rite of passage. No,” he replied. Molly giggled, and snuggled in closer. Sherlock began tracing patterns against her palm with his thumb.

 

“Although, in regards to the many ways in which society attempts to manipulate our lives in order to make us adhere to their ideals, I suppose it is fitting that the first time I remember having sex is with you,” Sherlock added casually. Molly frowned.

 

“Is that your way of telling me that I was boring and/or disappointing?” she asked.

 

“What? No, no,” Sherlock said quickly, and he sighed heavily. “Society has spent a long time conditioning the world to place a great deal of importance on virginity, specifically in young females. Up until the late 1950's, there was a tradition in Japan wherein maikos would have their virginity sold to sponsors when they came of age. There are still cultures in which a woman will be put to death for allowing her purity to be compromised. In Western society, virginity has been made to appear special, and it is considered important to hold on to it until you are married, in the belief that you shouldn't spoil yourself before finding the one you love. So in that sense, it is interesting that the loss of innocence which I remember has adhered to that particular value, in that it happened with you.”

 

Molly had been only half listening, so it took a moment for her to fully understand. When Sherlock's words had sunk in, though, she sat bolt upright, and turned to face him so quickly that it made her dizzy.

 

“Sherlock, what are you- Are you saying that-” Molly fumbled over her words, eyes wide. Sherlock stared at her, looking almost surprised.

 

“Honestly Molly, had you imagined that I would consent to share my bed, food, or career with anyone I did not feel the utmost respect and affection for?” he asked, frowning. Molly gasped and laughed at the same time, resulting in a coughing fit. When she had recovered, face pink and eyes watering, she turned to face Sherlock, who was looking slightly bewildered.

  
“Say it, please, Sherlock.”

 

“Oh Molly, for goodness sake, we are adults, not children in a school yard-”

 

“Say it.”

 

“- _completely_ absurd, you really are-”

 

“Sherlock.”

 

“All right then, fine. If you are going to insist on being entirely ridiculous about this. I lo- Although I have to say, there-”

 

“ _Sherlock_.” The detective blinked at Molly, looking equal parts exasperated and nervous. He opened his mouth, and then shut it. And then opened it again. And then shut it. It was one of the few times Molly had seen him fail at words.

 

“Molly Hooper, I... Love you. Am in love with you, rather, I suppose that distinction ought to be made, as 'I love you' could easily be misconstrued as referencing platonic love, or the love felt between a parent and child, which would certainly give you the wrong idea.” He blinked a few times, and then nodded, looking at Molly. He frowned when he saw the tears overflowing from her eyes, trickling down her cheeks. “What's wrong, have I said it wrong?” he asked, looking decidedly concerned. Molly gave a watery little laugh, and took his face in her hands, shaking her head.

 

“No, no, you said it perfectly,” she said weakly, beaming. “I'm in love with you too, Sherlock.” She kissed him hard, and threw her arms around his neck, hugging him as though her life depended on it. After a moment, Sherlock's arms came up around her as well, and he hugged her tightly, his fingers twisting in the fabric of her shirt. They stayed like that for a long time. After a while, Sherlock cleared his throat and pulled away, immediately ranting on about the ways society had poisoned the minds of the people and created a herd of babbling morons capable of little more than the most basic thought processes. But Molly saw the shine of tears in his eyes, and the gentle shaking of his hands as he claimed the last apple dumpling for himself, and she took a shaky breath. The world seemed a lot more beautiful that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go, another chapter! 
> 
> So I know a couple of people were concerned about choices I made in my previous chapter, but I hope this has cleared things up for you. This has sort of been my plan for a while now, and this is actually a little headcanon I've been nursing since The Empty Hearse. I've had friends who had addictions who have lost weeks to drugs, and I just feel as though Sherlock would be equally as vulnerable to the bad decision making and memory loss as any other human. That's been a goal of mine, to show Sherlock as human. Anyway.
> 
> I hope you liked this chapter, please do comment and let me know what you think! Thank you so much for reading. :}


	27. Chapter 27

A person removed from the situation might have guessed that it would be easy to work in a morgue, surrounded by people who had died before their time, while dating a man whose career also relied heavily on corpses. Incredibly easy. Maybe even a little bit _fun_.

 

Unfortunately, this was rarely the case.

 

But then, many people, seeing their significant other come striding into their place of work with a bag of food and a thermos of tea would inspire feelings of great affection, gratitude, fluttery butterflies in the tummy. In Molly's case, it just made her wary and a bit tired. Though that quick kiss Sherlock bestowed upon her cheek still made her blush and grin. Moving with that same frantic energy which Molly had grown to dread, Sherlock dumped his effects on her desk, peeled off his gloves, and bounded over to the nearest gurney, leaving a trail of half-melted snowflakes in his wake.

 

“Has anybody interesting died since I last came in?” he asked, squinting down at Mr Henry Markem's toe tag. Molly sighed, rifling through paperwork until she found the list she had been compiling, a list of any suspicious deaths she had encountered in the past week. It had become a sort of ritual for the pair. When cases were running dry, Sherlock would dash over to St Bart's to search for any sort of clues that a murder may have been committed. More often than not, there was no criminal activity to worry about. It was mostly a way to focus his energy so that he wouldn't start shooting at things again. But it had been three weeks without a case, and Sherlock, for all his wondrous qualities, and for all that Molly loved him, was beginning to get tiresome. The detective snatched the list away from her, glaring down at it while he bounced on the balls of his feet. Molly kept half her attention on him as she turned back to the mountain of paperwork hiding her laptop. For the next little while, the room was almost quiet, save for the occasional banging of a mortuary door. Well, and Sherlock's muttering. Sherlock muttered a lot when he was restless. Molly was about an hour into her work when she was startled by a shout.

 

“NOTHING. There is NOTHING here.” She whirled around with a tiny shriek in time to see Sherlock throwing a clipboard onto a table with a great scowl on his face.

 

“Really Sherlock, do you need to yell like that?” she asked as she tried to get her pulse back under control. Sherlock didn't say anything, but turned his fierce scowl on Molly. She scowled back, and then sighed, turning back to her work. After about an hour of Sherlock reading and rereading the toe tags and staring grumpily at the bodies, he gave a great heaving sigh.

 

“Lunch?” he asked.

 

“Sure, that would be really lovely actually. What do you have?” Sherlock rolled over a free gurney and began laying out the food; two grilled cheese sandwiches, a container of fried tomatoes, a can of beans, two fried eggs, and, of course, the tea. They tucked in, chatting about how the day was going. Molly was backed up with paperwork, she had just dealt with a teary woman who had come in to identify her nephew, and she was really longing for a bubble bath. Sherlock had spent the morning going over some of Lestrade's cold cases, had solved four of them, and was now feeling bored and agitated. Molly thought that was right on schedule, but she didn't say it out loud. When they had finished eating, Molly cleaned up, expecting Sherlock to sweep out and find something else to do, but instead he stood up against the wall staring fixedly at Mr Markem's corpse. He looked bored, even a little morose, and Molly shook her head. She knew how exhausting it was to have nothing to do. So she went to him and hugged him hard from behind. She could feel him twitching gently with nervous energy.

 

“If you need anything, just let me know,” she murmured, before kissing him gently between the shoulder blades. He stiffened a little, which Molly took as a sign that she should leave him be, so she went back to her desk to finish the remaining files. She was just turning a page when she felt a pair of hands at her waist. She made a small sound of alarm, right before she was turned around, and Sherlock picked her up, sitting her down hard on her desk. Molly had enough time to think that it was a lucky thing she missed her laptop when Sherlock crashed up against her, kissing her with unexpected ferocity. As was often the case when Sherlock kissed her, Molly's mind short-circuited momentarily, and she froze completely. It was at that unfortunate moment that the doors to the room swung open, and a tall, frowning woman with red-rimmed eyes came stomping in, partway through removing her scarf and gloves.

 

“Dr Hooper, I know this is unorthodox, but I-” the woman began, but she stopped once she caught sight of Molly, who was blushing furiously at Sherlock, who was between her knees and in the midst of kissing her neck. He stopped to glare at the woman, who made a strange choking sound before whirling around and dashing from the room with her fist pressed to her mouth. Molly immediately began pushing Sherlock away, making odd little squeaking noises. The detective frowned down at her, though his ferocity was fading into confusion.

 

“Sherlock, get _off_ me! What do you think- You- I- I am _working_! I am at _work_! That was, oh my god, that-” Sherlock stepped over to the door and pushed it open, staring at the woman who was now trotting down the hall, making those same choking sounds of distress. Then, he looked back to the corpse on the gurney, who was still uncovered following Sherlock's examination of the body. He looked up at Molly, looking as though he was beginning to grasp the severity of the situation.

 

“Friend or relation?” he asked.

 

“Aunt turned legal guardian after his parents died, she was just in an hour ago to identify the body,” Molly squeaked. She was frantically pulling off her work shoes, trading in the comfortable trainers for snow boots, ready to run out after Mrs Markem so that she could apologize. “Sherlock, just because you're bored and antsy _doesn't_ mean you can have sex with me when I'm at work! I mean, at home, yes, it's fine, I get it, but do you have any idea how _bad_ this looks? I could get- Oh, god, I could-” she trailed off, trying not to panic. She abandoned her boots, only half on, and began fiddling with her hair, trying to tie it up into a more professional looking bun. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the doors banging open again. Mrs Markem had returned, Mike Stamford in tow. Tears were streaming down the older woman's face, and she pointed a shaking finger at Molly.

 

“Her! She's the one!” she shrieked. Mike gaped and stared back and forth between Molly and Sherlock. He took in Molly's flushed face and messy hair. Then he looked at the desk, where files and papers were scattered and crumpled. Then he looked at Mr Markem's corpse, which was uncovered, the sheet flung over a chair. He was awfully quiet for a moment. Then he cleared his throat.

 

“Uhm, Ms Hooper, I was just speaking with Mrs Markem here, and she, well, she's just voiced to me a concern,” he said, very clearly trying to sound diplomatic. Mrs Markem, however, was not in the mood for a civil chat, as evidenced by her shriek of panicked laughed.

 

“A concern?! I should say I have more than a _concern_ , you bloody fool, this, this _woman_ has just been defiling my nephew! Having sex practically on top of him!” Molly gaped, the blood draining from her face.

 

“I wasn't, I, I _didn_ ' _t_! I would _never_!” she squawked, panic rising in her throat like bile. Sherlock was frowning.

 

“Having sex on top of your nephew? Do you imagine we carried him to the desk, laid him out and molested him, and then moved him back?” Mrs Markem shrieked, but Sherlock ignored it. “Only a moron would look at the body on the slab and think there was any way an act of sexual misconduct had just been performed on it, just look at it!” Mike pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh.

 

“He molests my nephew, and then calls me a moron? Stamford, what sort of lunatics do you hire around here?” Mrs Markem screeched.

 

“Mrs Markem, please, I can explain!” Molly piped up, wringing her hands. “This is Sherlock Holmes, he's my- Well, I mean, he doesn't exactly _work_ here, I mean, he _does_ work here, but he doesn't _work_ here, you know?” Mrs Markem gave a great, scandalised gasp.

 

“So you thought you would just invite your _boyfriend_ to work so that you could- could _sully_ my poor Henry?” Sherlock scoffed in the corner. Molly waved a hand at him frantically and began rambling to cut him off.

 

“Nonono no _no_ , no it wasn't like that at all! He dropped by with lunch, and to see if there were any new cases! He's sort of like a detective, you see,” she explained, trying desperately to stay calm.

 

“A detective?! Oh yes, I am _sure_ there were many things being _detected_ around here!” the older woman exclaimed. “Mr Stamford, I _demand_ that you fire this dreadful girl, and have this lunatic thrown out!” Molly frowned and piped up immediately, before poor Mike could say anything.

 

“Fired for what? For kissing my- For kissing Sherlock _at my desk and not on a corpse thank you_ , after he's just looked at your nephew to see if he was murdered?” Mrs Markem blanched, her mouth falling open.

 

“He hasn't been, for what it's worth,” said Sherlock, who was glowering at everyone.

 

“And, yes, it's maybe not the most professional thing I've ever done, kissing a man at work, but I was on my lunch break, and, well, it's not actually any of your business what I do in my spare time!” Molly was practically bouncing now, her guilt at upsetting a mourning woman melting away into righteous indignation at being slandered in front of her boss. “And frankly, I think you ought to apologize for being rude to Sherlock, who hasn't done anything wrong!”

 

“He was looking at my poor, sweet Henry!” cried Mrs Markem, fresh tears streaking down her face. “He was _defiling_ him, he was invading his privacy! He was intentionally dishonouring my poor boy! He is a pervert and a psychopath, and he should be punished!”

 

“Sherlock is _not_ a psychopath!” Molly said loudly, ignoring the way Mike was frowning and trying to get everyone to calm down. “Sherlock is a lovely man, a really lovely man! And he doesn't deserve to be talked to like that. And he _wasn't_ invading anyone's privacy, he was inspecting a corpse to see if it had been-”

 

Molly was cut off suddenly as Mrs Markem swung around and slapped her, hard, across the face. The move was so unexpected that, for a brief moment, the room fell silent, echoing with the sound. Molly's eyes immediately welled up with tears as the shock gave way to a vivid, stinging pain. She could taste blood on her tongue. Her face felt like it had been burned. She took a deep, gasping breath, trying to keep from crumpling to the floor in tears.

 

“No, Sherlock, stop it!” Mike's sudden shout drew Molly's attention. Sherlock had grabbed Mrs Markem by the upper arms. His face was hard and cold, and the look in his eyes was frightening. He had a tight hold on Mrs Markem, who was whimpering a little now, her face gone very pale. Sherlock did stop at Mike's command, and he turned a little to stare at Molly, who gave a little shake of her head.

 

“Let go of Mrs Markem, Sherlock,” she said in a small voice. As the tears spilled over her cheeks, she turned away, shaking, and angry at herself for feeling ashamed.

 

“Mrs Markem, I think it best you leave now,” said Mike in a tense voice. There was silence for a moment, then uncertain footsteps. “I, um- I hope you're okay, Molly, I'll handle all of this,” he added cautiously. The doors swung, first open and then shut. Molly clenched her jaw and squeezed her eyes shut, trying desperately to regain control of her emotions. She had the warning of three loud footsteps before she was gently turned around. Sherlock brushed the hair out of her face and wiped the tears from her eyes as he scanned her face. Molly had been analysed by Sherlock before, but there was concern in his eyes, and he was so tender with her as he brought his fingers to her cheek that she couldn't hold back the hitch of her breath, and then, almost inevitably, she was sobbing openly, her tears coming all the more violently because she was completely angry with herself for crying at all. Immediately she turned her face away, knowing how uncomfortable and awkward big displays of emotion made Sherlock feel. But he surprised her, pulling her in closer for a tight hug, and kissing the top of her head. His rigid stance was the only clue to how uncomfortable he really felt.

 

It didn't take very long for Molly to cry herself out. Somehow, through the course of it, she and Sherlock ended up sitting on the floor, him squeezing her close with a sort of grim determination. It meant that their legs tangled awkwardly, but Molly didn't really mind. Sherlock being sweet was worth the pins and needles. So they sat together in silence, Molly trying to decide whether or not it was a silence that needed to be broken.

 

“I'm sorry for, um, crying on you,” she said finally, frowning at her own awkwardness.

 

“Don't be, I understand,” he replied curtly. Molly bit her lip hard, worried by his tone. She risked a peek at his face, and saw that he was staring at the wall, face stony. Not good. She swallowed hard, and cleared her throat.

  
“Are you okay?” she asked.

 

“Yes, perfectly,” he replied far too quickly. Molly sighed.

 

“Sherlock, it's okay, if I've made you uncomfortable, you can say,” she said, glum. Sherlock made an irritated noise in the back of his throat.

 

“It is nothing you've done, don't be stupid,” he snapped. Molly tensed a little, but didn't say anything. She just bit her lip harder, wondering if she ought to pull away, go home, take a back and drink all the tea in her flat. Sherlock sighed heavily, just in time, and she peered up at him anxiously. This time, he met her eyes.

 

“In future, while your attempts to defend me were admirable, I'd prefer it if you would give up before you are assaulted,” he said, sounding completely exasperated. Molly squinted up at him, frowning.

 

“That's what's bothering you?” she asked. Sherlock arched a brow at her in response. Molly gave a little snort of a laugh, and snuggled closer to him. “She didn't hit me for defending you, Sherlock, she hit me because I called her nephew a corpse. I mean, technically he is, but really, it was sort of insensitive for me to say it,” she said.

 

“You would not have said it were you not trying to defend me,” Sherlock retorted. Molly shrugged. “I fail to understand why you were defending me in the first place, or did you not notice that she was trying to have you sacked?” he said grumpily. Molly gave a little laugh at that, and gave the detective a squeeze.

 

“Mike wouldn't fire me for something as silly as kissing you during my lunch break. And he knows that neither of us would disrespect the bodies here.” She paused. “Well, unless it was for scientific reasons, obviously. But Mr Markem hadn't checked the right box for that, so there was really no need for all the fuss. Anyway.” She shrugged. “I think, if anything, it was for a worthy cause. She shouldn't have insulted you like that.” Molly yawned, and her eyes drifted shut. Crying always made her tired, and she hadn't slept well the night before anyway. She wondered fleetingly if Mike would let her go home after all the drama, she was exhausted.

 

“People insult me all the time,” Sherlock said after a moment. His voice sounded a bit wooden and strange, and Molly frowned, giving him another little squeeze.

 

“Doesn't mean they should, you're lovely,” she argued sleepily.

 

“Not a good enough reason to inspire violence, Molly,” he said. Molly huffed.

 

“Look, I am a grown woman, I get to decide how I inspire violence,” she said. And then she giggled. “Seriously though, Sherlock, I'm fine, it was only a slap. It's not like she left any lasting damage. And besides, I can't think of a better reason to get hit than by standing up for someone I love.” Sherlock said nothing. He said nothing for quite a while, actually, long enough that Molly actually did nod off for a moment. The low rumbling of his voice brought her back to present though, and she cleared her throat sleepily.

 

“Mm? Sorry, what was that?”

 

“I said, I think that we ought to get married,” Sherlock said.

 

The words took a little while to settle in Molly's ears. When they did finally make sense to her, her eyes snapped open, and she sat up too quickly, getting a brief dizzy spell for her efforts. She turned to face him, blinking furiously.

 

“You- You think that you and I- That we should-?” The words refused to leave her mouth in any sort of order which made sense. Sherlock gazed at her, looking a bit pleased. Then he sighed, untangled his legs, and stood, extending a hand to help Molly up.

 

“There is no need to look so shocked, I did tell you of my intentions when I first broached the subject of our relationship,” he said, yanking her to her feet. “I had planned to propose in a more romantic setting, but honestly, I don't feel like waiting any longer.” Molly just gaped at him. He sank to his knees in front of her, and she gave a little squawk, her hands flying up to cover her mouth as new tears sprung up in her eyes. Sherlock took her hands in his, and gazed up into her eyes.

 

“Molly Hooper,” he said softly. “Would you do me the greatest honour, and consent to becoming my wife?”

 

Molly stared down at Sherlock, who looked blurry through her tears. Her heart was thudding so hard in her chest that she felt as though it would knock her down. A memory came jumping to her mind, standing in the sitting room at 221B, surrounded by friends and family, with Sherlock pressing her to his chest and demanding that everyone applaud the most sarcastic proposal of marriage that had ever been performed in all the history of the world. She gave a watery little laugh at the image, and beamed down at Sherlock.

 

“Yes, yes of course I will,” she said.

 

Sherlock gave her a breathtaking smile, and brushed his lips across her knuckles. Then he stood and pulled her close, kissing her cheek, her forehead, her hair. Molly wrapped her arms around him, and nuzzled against his chest with a smile on her face and tears in her eyes. It was the most delicious feeling of deja vu she had ever experienced. They stood like that for a long time, just holding on tight and breathing each other in. But a curious little voice popped up in Molly's head, and she cleared her throat, breaking the silence.

 

“Sherlock?”

 

“Mm?”

 

“Did you really have a more romantic place planned?”

 

“Yes, of course I did.” He paused. “I was going to propose in your flat.” Molly snorted. “That's more romantic, is it?” “Than a mortuary? I should hope so.” Molly smiled at that. And then she giggled.

 

“I do have one condition, though,” she said.

 

“Oh good. What is your one condition,” Sherlock replied flatly. Molly bit her lip, grinning.

 

“This time, we have to stay married at least three months.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can tell we're nearing the end, because I'm trying to cram as much fluff as possible into this now. ;}
> 
> So here we have a little angst, a touch of drama, and the second (/the proper) proposal! I hope you enjoyed it, please do comment and tell me what you think. Thank you very much, and I'll see you at the next chapter!


End file.
